The first feature film from Nicholas Verso, ‘Boys in the Trees’ is a coming-of-age story focused on questions of masculinity and wrapped in a delightful – and visually stunning – cloak of Halloween. …They explore what it means that their friendship fell apart – what childhood loses to adolescence, what adolescence loses to adulthood, what we gain in either case, and what we give away when we stop hoping that something amazing could happen to us.
By the time I walked into my screening of Boys in the Trees, it had a little frowny face beside it in the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) mobile app, and there was a “buy one, get one” sale on tickets. Since premiering at Venice earlier this month, the film hasn’t received more than a handful of mixed reviews. While it’s slated to hit Australian theatres in time for Halloween, I haven’t been able to find any news about distribution in North America. This is very disappointing, because Boys in the Trees is one of the best films I’ve seen in recent years, and I left the theatre wanting to share it with everyone.
The first feature film from Nicholas Verso, Boys in the Trees is a coming-of-age story focused on questions of masculinity and wrapped in a delightful – and visually stunning – cloak of Halloween. I was in love with every part of it, right from the start – the details in the costuming, the weirdly specific soundtrack (which Verso explained was built out of songs that had personal meaning for him), the charismatic performances from its young actors, the incredibly vivid colors in a movie set almost completely at night. Mostly, though, I loved the dark emotional palette the story draws from, and its fearlessness in letting itself and its teenage characters be uncool enough to care about things.
The story takes place in a stylized, hyper-real version of 1997, in which a bully and his victim go on a supernatural adventure together on Halloween night. Corey (Toby Wallace), the bully, is also the film’s protagonist, trying to figure out whether following his dreams is worth exposing himself to scorn and ridicule. Jonah (Gulliver McGrath), the victim, used to be Corey’s best friend, before Corey started trying so hard to fit in. Over the course of a night, they explore what it means that their friendship fell apart – what childhood loses to adolescence, what adolescence loses to adulthood, what we gain in either case, and what we give away when we stop hoping that something amazing could happen to us.
The film’s greatest trick is that there’s a false ending roughly 80 minutes in, in which it seems like Corey’s learned everything he needed to learn and wrapped all of his problems up neatly… only to discover that there’s still half an hour in this movie, nothing is as simple as it seems, and sometimes you can’t take back what you’ve done.
At the screening, Verso explained that he’s received mixed reactions from men watching the film. Some hate it passionately, and others told him it’s precious to them because of how it reflects their experiences. In exploring masculinity, Boys in the Trees brushes against sexism, homophobia, latent homosexuality, aggression, vulnerability, kindness, friendship, and strength at various times without seeming like a Public Service Announcement. It’s a story about bullying that isn’t as simple as saying, “Bullies are horrible people,” and a story about friendship that isn’t as simple as saying, “Your friends are the people you always get along with.” The film takes a more layered view of what people can be to each other – what boys can be to each other – and how relationships can change from moment to moment.
Verso’s view of Halloween is also – except for one jump scare – less rooted in terror than in carnival – the idea that there’s one night a year where the regular rules are suspended; when the veils between worlds, both real and imagined, become permeable, and people can cross over. This is the most delicious form of Halloween, and it’s on full display from beginning to end.
The only weakness worth mentioning is a subplot in which Corey earns a girlfriend almost completely at random. This plot line has no relationship to anything else in the movie, slows down the action in confusing ways whenever it appears, and seems to happen just because it’s expected. The girl, Romany (Mitzi Ruhlmann), seems pretty cool, but is also made to speak for her entire gender at various points, and literally only ever appears so that she can be a good influence on Corey. Since Jonah’s already a good influence on Corey and more integral to the plot, it’s not clear what Romany’s adding besides proof of Corey’s heterosexuality.
That’s important, because the much more interesting relationship in the film exists between Corey and the leader of his little gang, Jango (Justin Holborow). Jango’s an asshole, but he also values his friendship with Corey, who draws out a gentler side of his personality. Justin Holborow’s performance captures the sense of someone whose entire demeanor can change depending on whether or not he sees the people before him as human, and there are homoerotic undertones to the frustrated sense of ownership he displays toward Corey. It’s not that Boys in the Trees needs to be an LGBTQ movie in order to tell a good story – it’s just that the film seems a lot more interested in the boys’ relationship than it does in Romany, and it might have been nice if the story had leaned into it more.
Even with the extraneous heterosexual romance running interference, Boys in the Trees still presents a remarkably strong sense of voice, and displays the same strength of its characters in daring to leave itself vulnerable through nerdy acts of caring. Verso took risks with this story and poured himself into it rather than holding back, and that’s something I’d always choose to watch over a perfectly executed, perfectly ordinary film.
Boys in the Trees may or may not ever come to a theatre near you, but, hopefully, we can all stream it online one day.
Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies, TV and video games on her blog.
I fixated on the Team Duckie vs. Team Blane aspect of the film so much that I entirely missed the point. I was so Team Duckie that I blamed Andie for not choosing him. …I realized I had fallen into a trap that society has conditioned us to fall into: the dreaded sexist “friend zone.”
I first saw Pretty in Pink in middle school. Seated next to my mother, who was working through her list of favorite 80s films to show me, I fell in love with it almost immediately. I saw in Andie (Molly Ringwald) what I wanted for myself. She was confident and outspoken in the ways I wasn’t; she didn’t care what people thought about her clothing and she rocked it. I wanted to be her so badly that I scoured swap meets for “vintage” clothing (and am still on the lookout for some of Duckie’s scuffed, white duck shoes). My closet consisted of blazers with large shoulder pads, lacy shirts, flower earrings, and one t-shirt that has a picture of Duckie (Jon Cryer) and reads, “I would have picked Duckie.” Oh yes, I was one of those.
I was Team Duckie through and through. I couldn’t even hide my disdain when my mom told me that her and her friends were Team Blane. Not only did I try to channel Andie in my everyday style, I also longed for a Duckie: a best friend who was hopelessly devoted to me, who would pine for me while listening to The Smiths’ “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want,” who would only want what’s best for me. And in the end, I would open my eyes and realize what I had been missing out on all along. When Andie saw Duckie at the prom and asked to admire him, in the same way he asks to do that with her, I would’ve chosen him right then and there. Blane who? I would’ve righted what I thought was Andie’s wrong when she chose Blane. I fixated on the Team Duckie vs. Team Blane aspect of the film so much that I entirely missed the point. I was so Team Duckie that I blamed Andie for not choosing him. I thought she was foolish for not loving him romantically. How could she be so clueless?!
It wasn’t until I grew up some more, graduated high school, and went through several re-watches that I realized I had fallen into a trap that society has conditioned us to fall into: the dreaded sexist “friend zone.” The general definition is when one of two friends seeks to turn their friendship with the other person into a romantic and/or sexual relationship, but the other person doesn’t want to. That person just wants to remain friends. And so, the first person is “stuck” in a friendship when they really want it to be a romantic relationship. The “friend zone” comes with very common side-effects that usually disparage women. If a man, in this case Duckie, falls in love with his friend, it’s up to her to return the favor and love him back. If she doesn’t or, heaven forbid, she likes someone else, she’s seen as being in the wrong and at fault. I, unfortunately, had this mentality as a young girl, which a lot of people still have: if your best friend likes you, you owe it to them to choose them over the person you actually have a crush on. It’s harmful for girls to grow up with this outlook because it further discourages them to act on their actual feelings. It makes girls scared of being accused of leading their friend on so they feel they have to reciprocate. Women and girls don’t owe anyone a relationship.
On one of my re-watches after I graduated high school, I noticed that my reaction to Andie not loving Duckie the way he loved her paralleled Steff’s (James Spader) reaction after he asked her out towards the beginning of the film. When he starts to notice the animosity Andie holds for him, he retaliates in anger. Not only is he leaning against her car door, forbidding her from escaping, but he begins to put her down. He doesn’t see what makes her so special from all the other girls that won’t go out with him, he calls her a “bitch,” and tells her to go to a doctor to get that condition checked out. Sure, I didn’t do all these things, but I definitely thought that Andie was wrong to not get with Duckie. I wanted her to open her eyes and just see him there. Steff and I shared the same disbelief when she didn’t show interest. If Duckie loved her so much then she should love him too, right?
It was wild to me that Andie didn’t like Duckie back, but after recently re-watching the film I don’t know why I ever blamed her. She stuck true to what she wanted. She didn’t feel guilted into pursuing a romantic relationship that she didn’t want with Duckie. She acted the way she did with him because they’re friends and that’s it. The way that Andie platonically acts with Duckie can be — which I did — misconstrued to be romantic. They’re touchy, they talk “20 times” a day, they care about the other’s feelings. All of these are friendly behaviors; Andie didn’t lead him on in any way.
If you still like Duckie and Andie together and you’re now feeling bad about it, don’t. There’s nothing inherently wrong with liking the idea of Duckie and Andie together. They are cute. He really cares about her and she for him. But what is wrong is to belittle Andie and her emotions and blame her for not loving him. You can’t help the happiness you feel when Duckie shows up at the prom for Andie. You can’t help but feel a sense of hope when they run to each other, hug, and reconcile by walking into prom together. But what you can help is how you react to her not “choosing” him.
Andie’s father, Jack (Harry Dean Stanton), puts it perfectly when Duckie first tells him that he loves her: “You can love Andie, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to love you back. I mean, it doesn’t mean that she won’t, but what I’m trying to say is you can’t make it happen, you know? It either will or it won’t. It’s all in the heart.” Andie stayed true to her heart. Although she could’ve gotten with Duckie, she defied expectations and didn’t. She didn’t waver. She was strong. Now that I watch it, I can see the appeal of both Blane and Duckie, but I can’t choose a side anymore. The only team I’m on is Team Andie.
If the story is a gay man attempting to make over a straight woman, it simply emphasizes that all men of all sexualities in a male-dominated society need to respect women, and women should feel free to and be able to express confidence in themselves.
Last year, and 100 years after George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion premiered on London’s West End, film producer Cameron Mackintosh announced that his remake of the Lerner and Loewe classic musical My Fair Lady, and its subsequent 1964 film adaptation starring Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison, which are based off of Bernard Shaw’s play, was being shelved after “various things that happened with the rights and the studio and everything like that.”
Emma Thompson had written the screenplay for this new adaptation, and it was supposedly to have been truer to Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. The same reason I was excited about Emma Thompson’s screenplay was probably the main reason the project was shelved. I say this because aspects of Pygmalion, especially its ending, have been under fire for what is now over a century. Pygmalion is a play on the Greek myth in which a sculpture falls in love with his own creation of a beautiful female statue. In Bernard Shaw’s 1914 story, a phonetics professor Henry Higgins and his new friend Colonel Pickering make a wager that Higgins can give a makeover in speech, manners, and dress to flower girl Eliza Doolittle and successfully pass her off as a duchess. However, it is Eliza’s efforts that win Henry his bet, and when she isn’t praised for it, she learns to stands up for herself, and eventually Henry learns to respect her for it. Unlike in the Greek myth, there is no romance at the end.
Eliza confronts Henry of his mistreatment of her in Pygmalion (1938) starring Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard.
Bernard Shaw, though not always a great ally, was a feminist, and his play was only adapted into a musical after his death. He had refused to allow a musical adaptation of his play, afraid the relationships between his main characters Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins would be romanticized and the ending, in which they do not enter a romantic relationship or marriage, would be changed, something the 1938 film adaptation of Bernard Shaw’s play had already done, with Eliza pretty much crawling back to Henry at the end. Bernard Shaw did not want a musical version to do the same. His feelings were completely ignored after his death, and lyricist and librettist Alan Jay Lerner and composer Frederick Loewe stuck on a conventional Hollywood ending to the story and created My Fair Lady, with an ending similar to the 1934 film.
Hollywood still likes its romantic and “happy” endings, and no doubt there were disagreements over how Thompson’s and Mackintosh’s My Fair Lady should depict Eliza’s and Henry’s relationship. Bernard Shaw wrote an entire epilogue to his play to emphasize that, no, the characters did not nor never would marry each other or have a romantic or sexual relationship. This is not tragic or sad, it’s just that they don’t belong together, but still respect each other and continue to be friends long after the events of the play.
Hollywood still struggles with the ridiculous question “Can (cis and heterosexual) men and women be just friends?” even though common sense and observation have always proven that, yes, they can, many are, many always have been, and many will continue to be so. As Henry Higgin’s mother tells him, in what seems to be every incarnation of the play and musical, Eliza is not an “umbrella” – not an object or a piece of property that can be owned or mistreated or thrown aside. Yes, women are people, and do not merely exist to support men. Both Henry and Eliza live in a world in which close friendships between men and women are discouraged, and marriage encouraged. That they each defy this, refuse to marry each other, and continue to be friends regardless of their other friendships or romantic partnerships, is wonderful – and, seemingly, something Hollywood still refuses to see as a valid choice. Whether its When Harry Met Sally, or No Strings Attached, or Friends With Benefits, Hollywood still teaches us that close relationships between (cis and hetero) men and women should ideally only be close if they are romantic, though occasional exceptions can be made if one of them is “taken,” such as in the case of How I Met Your Mother’s Ted and Lilly.
Though the argument can certainly be made that Higgins is homosexual (he and Colonel Pickering move in together at the start of the story, and continue to live together the rest of their days, despite both being financially independent) or asexual, and many have claimed that Bernard Shaw himself was closeted, Henry’s sexuality is perhaps not as important in the overall story as Eliza standing up for herself and Henry respecting her for it. This is emphasized in the 1983 TV adaptation of Pygmalion in which Peter O’Toole, who had previously and famously played gay or bisexual Henry II of England in Becket and The Lion In Winter, plays Henry Higgins, and Higgins’ mother knowingly states that “I should be uneasy about you and her if you were less fond of Colonel Pickering.” While this line was also added in the 1981 TV adaptation with Robert Powell, and also knowingly states, O’Toole’s reply of “nonsense” in regard to himself and Pickering is less adamant than Powell’s. If the story is a gay man attempting to make over a straight woman, it simply emphasizes that all men of all sexualities in a male-dominated society need to respect women, and women should feel free to and be able to express confidence in themselves.
Rex Harrison as Henry and Audrey Hepburn as Eliza in My Fair Lady (1964)
Hollywood has loved and still loves the story of the makeover, whether shown in the newest Cinderella, or in the recent film Kingsman (in which My Fair Lady is referenced, a move all the more insightful since Colin Firth had supposedly been set to play Henry Higgins in the now shelved adaptation), in 1999’s She’s All That, or in various episodes on various Disney channel shows throughout the years. As Pygmalion points out, issues of class, gender, sexuality, and beyond cannot be solved overnight, or even in a few months, and certainly not just by a change of clothes and habits. In Bernard Shaw’s story, respect for one another is of vital importance, more important than romance. Eliza does find romance, but it is on her own terms and with someone who has shown her more “kindness” than Henry. Though she and Henry have multiple scenes together, assist each other, and clearly care for each other in their own way, they have no obligation to enter into a romance with each other, a message that, hopefully, Hollywood will remember the next time they choose to adapt Pygmalion or My Fair Lady.
Why examine this offbeat show through a feminist or ethical lens? Because ‘Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends’ (Craig McCracken, 2004-2009) is wildly inventive and subversive. Its plot, which explains that children’s imaginary friends must eventually go live at Madame Foster’s zany orphanage after he or she has outgrown their friend, insists that a child’s imagination has the power to make something real, whether adults believe it or not. At this home, young children are welcome to come and “adopt” one of the friends who is housed there. In this way, the friends are concepts that are “recycled” in order to accommodate children as they grow up.
Written by Jenny Lapekas as part of our theme week on Children’s Television.
Why examine this offbeat show through a feminist or ethical lens? Because Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends (Craig McCracken, 2004-2009) is wildly inventive and subversive. Its plot, which explains that children’s imaginary friends must eventually go live at Madame Foster’s zany orphanage after he or she has outgrown their friend, insists that a child’s imagination has the power to make something real, whether adults believe it or not. At this home, young children are welcome to come and “adopt” one of the friends who is housed there. In this way, the friends are concepts that are “recycled” in order to accommodate children as they grow up.
It’s interesting that Wilt is created with physical defects (his eye and his arm), pointing up the fact that these are not considered flaws by his young creator, but rather just part of who he is, like a hairstyle or shoe size.
There’s a certain level of manic energy present in some of today’s children’s cartoons (see SpongeBob SquarePants), and Foster’s is no exception. It seems as if so much is taking place all at once–most of which is pure nonsense–that we must comb through a cartoon’s goofy dialogue and fast-paced antics to discover central themes of kindness, friendship, and teamwork. I grew up watching David the Gnome, Eureeka’s Castle, Will Quack Quack, Noozles, and Faerie Tale Theatre, all shows that were modest and plodding, patient in their moral messages for kids watching at home. Although Foster’s can be grouped with other kids’ shows that consistently feature a great deal of commotion, this Cartoon Network show boasts some of the most creative characters and engaging plots, even for adults who are fans of clever cartoons with positive messages for everyone. I never had an imaginary friend growing up, and this show is a reminder of that for me.
The commercial for Foster’s states that it’s a place “where good ideas aren’t forgotten.”
We have an eclectic mix of primary characters who we follow throughout the series. The atmosphere at Foster’s rests somewhere between a low level psych ward and a daycare full of rambunctious trouble-makers. Although female-gendered “friends” are largely underrepresented on the show, the lessons Foster’s has to offer to child viewers are healthy and powerful, as they promote building friendships, using your imagination to have fun, and exploring the world around you.
After a fight with his brother, Terrence, which leaves the apartment in disarray, Mac’s mother tells him that at eight years old, he should have outgrown his imaginary friend, Bloo, by now. The fact that after Mac is forced to surrender his kind imaginary friend, yet continues to visit him every day, is evidence that Mac is not quite ready to grow up yet, and perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. We’re never too old to dream, imagine, and tell stories. This pressure to “grow up” translates to a sort of censorship, which inhibits our creative impulses as adults. We can’t be afraid to embrace nonsense; it can always be the root of something spectacular.
We can assume that Mac creates Bloo to cope with the bullying he receives from his obnoxious older brother on a daily basis.
Since the inhabitants of Foster’s are the products of children’s imaginations, it may make more sense to focus on these characters, rather than the humans who help to run the institution. If we simply take a look at the appearance of many imaginary friends, we may surmise that this show is the ultimate lesson in diversity for children viewers. Wilt is very tall with some bodily “deformities,” Eduardo is a Latino creature resembling a bull, and Coco is a bird-like friend whose vocabulary stops at her own name. By observing many of the friends, we get a sense of the psychology behind each creature’s origin. Coco, for example, was dreamed up by a little girl who survives a plane crash and becomes stranded on a desert island; if we look closely, the bird’s head and hair mimic a palm tree, and her body looks like a crashed airplane. In this way, Foster’s can be seen as literally fostering childhood stressors, including the confusion many of us can remember from our early years; the home we find in this cartoon works to make sense of that uncertainty.
Coco’s image is a direct reflection of her little girl’s trauma after a near-death experience.
Because Coco is the only female character within our primary group of imaginary friends, I think it makes sense to focus on her presence in the home. Foster’s houses dozens of more friends, a few of them female, and many of them become entangled in the lives of the main characters. One secondary female character we meet right away is the insufferable Duchess, who believes that she is the best idea anyone’s ever come up with. This leaves Coco as the only primary character who is an imaginary friend in Foster’s (excluding, of course, the humans who help to run the home). What luck that Coco, in spite of her limited vocabulary (or perhaps because of), is simply delightful.
Because Coco is only able to say her own name, she must alter her tone to let her friends know if she’s happy or upset, or if she’s asking a question or giving a direction, etc. This communication has its own set of rules in relation to the other characters (see Stewie from Family Guy). When Bloo first meets her, he repeatedly says “Yes” because he thinks she’s asking if he’d like some cocoa. However, Wilt understands her and explains that she was offering Bloo some juice.
In the first episode of the series, Coco repeatedly squawks “Coco!” at Eduardo as he rescues Mac from a vicious monster created by a “jerky teenage boy,” and Eduardo eventually says in Spanish, “Yes, thanks, Coco, you have a way with words,” clearly an ironic joke that Coco is adept at resolving tense situations, despite the fact that we can’t understand her on some level. It’s also made clear that when we make friends, we eventually begin to speak the same language, even if outsiders are unable to translate it. The show’s inclusion of a Latino character also exposes children to the Spanish language, which can only be a good thing. This scene also solidifies Eduardo as a character we cannot and should not judge based on appearances alone. Despite his large stature and booming voice (not to mention that he’s a bull!), he’s the gentlest friend at Foster’s and is often terrified of children, another example of comical irony in the cartoon.
In season three, Mac responds to Coco’s “gibberish” with an ominous, “Coco, I think if we did that, we’d go to jail,” alerting us to a darker side of Foster’s and its whimsical friends. Like everything else on the show, her thought is left to our own imaginations. What’s convenient and exciting about having Coco around is that she can lay eggs that contain fun prizes. She’s so excited when Bloo arrives at Foster’s that she lays an egg filled with a Ming vase, in addition to a bundle of other mysterious items that Mac carries off when he leaves. Coco also proves her kindness on Bloo’s first night at Foster’s when she gives him an egg with Mac’s photo inside.
Mac is delighted to gather the plastic eggs Coco has laid.
Coco is important not only because she’s one of the only female characters in the house, but because her presence is a mark of understanding: that childhood is its own language, and that play and learning are interconnected and necessary for growth. What children can take away from Foster’s is the understanding that imagination is not synonymous with foolishness, and that it is a muscle to be flexed as often as possible. If this key lesson is instilled in children at a young age, we can expect them to become more creative and tolerant adults who in turn raise their own children to view the world as being full of possibilities, as opposed to the frightening monsters we carry with us from childhood. We may find that those monsters hiding in our closets when we’re kids become the unrealized ideas we hide from as adults. Foster’s materializes this concept beautifully and offers adult viewers the opportunity to live vicariously through each imaginary friend we meet.
Foster’s appeals to kids as it depicts authority figures in a patronizing light, such as the uptight Mr. Herriman, who happens to be a huge rabbit (and also reminds me of the androgynous and high-strung Rabbit of Winnie the Pooh). And yes, most of the friends we follow on the show are males. However, these are forgivable offenses considering the lightheartedness the show promotes, not to mention its celebration of childhood and the endless possibilities of the imagination. Madame Foster’s home offers childhood friends a second chance, proving that imaginary friends don’t die or disappear but are lovingly passed on to the next child who is in need of a wacky companion. Child viewers who actually entertain imaginary friends can easily find some validation in this show’s exploration of that thin line that separates reality from make-believe. Foster’s is a fantastic wonderland for young viewers and a gentle push to adults to pay attention to their child’s imaginary friend, who is always very real for the child.
Note: Season one of Foster’s is currently available on Netflix.
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Jenny holds a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University. Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema. You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.
These characters challenge our gendered assumptions about sex, trauma, and vengeance, which can make audiences uncomfortable. I was likely too young when I first watched ‘Thelma and Louise’ (Ridley Scott, 1991). However, I remember the surge of adrenaline I felt when Louise shot and killed Thelma’s rapist, how incredibly good it felt to idolize these convict women who had had enough with their monotonous lives, at an age when I couldn’t possibly comprehend patriarchal oppression, the comforts of solidarity and sisterhood, or the concept of escapism utilized not necessarily to run away but rather to find your wildest, most genuine self.
Written by Jenny Lapekas as part of our theme week on Rape Revenge Fantasies.
The rape revenge subgenre, typically within the horror realm, is a topic I’ve thought about a lot. Rape revenge offers catharsis, fantasy, and a feminist departure from the very real patriarchy, where rape is too often underreported or the victim is dismissed as “wanting it” or “asking for it” via her short skirt. The avenger of the rape revenge film appropriates the criminal act for his or her own empowerment, hence swapping gender roles. Because rape is typically perpetrated by men, women who respond with violence in the form of murder or another rape represent a wonderfully complex hero/villain binary. When male perpetrators are violated and/or killed by feminist avengers, what does their feminization mean? That rape is inherently masculine and carried out on the helpless feminine? The agency of violence is also in question within this discussion; how do viewers navigate feminine (feminist) violence? These characters challenge our gendered assumptions about sex, trauma, and vengeance, which can make audiences uncomfortable. I was likely too young when I first watched Thelma and Louise (Ridley Scott, 1991). However, I remember the surge of adrenaline I felt when Louise shot and killed Thelma’s rapist, how incredibly good it felt to idolize these convict women who had had enough with their monotonous lives, at an age when I couldn’t possibly comprehend patriarchal oppression, the comforts of solidarity and sisterhood, or the concept of escapism utilized not necessarily to run away but rather to find your wildest, most genuine self.
Thelma is submissive and looks to the confident Louise as a feminist role model.
Thelma and Louise seems such an obviously feminist movie, which is why I’d like to focus on Thelma’s rape scene, which galvanizes the pair’s journey thereafter. I suggest that the film is constructed, then, around the rape narrative, amidst a postfeminist storyline of female bonding and spiritual awakening. We can easily assess Thelma’s placement as a female character who initially lacks agency; rather, she soothes her husband’s temper tantrums and manages the household. Like many unhappily married women, she hasn’t a clue what to do about her unhappiness or even how to fully recognize or own it. The murder of her rapist unleashes a crime spree, but also the act of radical surrender, from which Thelma acknowledges she cannot and will not recover. This theme of agency is birthed in the rape scene and then climaxes in the famous concluding scene of the women sailing into the Grand Canyon. Both women make the choice to respond to violence with violence, which is the feminist agency found within the rape-revenge genre. Women like Thelma and Louise who carry out these acts of violence in order to avenge a rape challenge our cultural understanding of violence as rhetoric and gendered behavior onscreen.
Thelma under the rule of her short-tempered husband and Louise involved in a complicated relationship, the duo plan their vacation with the most innocent of intentions. We hear Louise call Thelma a “little housewife” in the film’s opening scene, where Louise is introduced to us in her waitress uniform and Thelma is a floral bathrobe. As she’s packing for their getaway, we see Thelma toss a handgun into her bag as if she’s frightened or repulsed by it; she’s clearly aware of the power the classically phallic symbol boasts, even laying at the bottom of her bag. When Louise asks her why she bothered to bring it, Thelma says, “Psycho killers, bears, snakes.” Little do they know that Harlan, the man who attempts to rape Thelma, can be characterized as a “snake,” and they’re the ones who become killers as a result.
I have some trouble taking Christopher McDonald (who plays Darryl, Thelma’s controlling husband) seriously since he’s so incredibly convincing in his roles as goofy characters (see Happy Gilmore [Dennis Dugan, 1996] and Requiem for a Dream [Darren Aronofsky, 2000]). However, the film’s portrayal of Darryl doesn’t inspire any respect for his character.
Darryl finds that he’s unable to adequately care for himself in Thelma’s absence; Hal even points out during questioning that he’s standing in leftover pizza.
We’ve seen men act as the heroes who thwart rape and assault the would-be rapists (see Untamed Heart [Tony Bill, 1993] and Training Day [Antoine Fuqua, 2001]), but it seems important that in this film, the hero is a woman and a trusted friend who interrupts the crime and actually murders the man attempting to violate Thelma. Their guns–one bought by Darryl to protect his wife when alone at night and the other stolen from a police officer–are clear representations of male power and privilege; however, the women become quite comfortable appropriating these as weapons in dismantling the phallocracy that governs their choices, their bodies, and their realities while on their infamous road trip.
The rape scene takes place during the first stop on their trip as the ladies are set to travel to the mountains for a getaway. When Harlan insists that Thelma get some fresh air after a night of drinking and dancing, he tells her that he won’t hurt her, even after hiking up her dress and slapping her in the face. The level of violence intensifies after she slaps him back, and he bends her over a car and begins to unbuckle his pants. Louise holds a gun to Harlan’s neck as he puts his hands up and allows Thelma to collect herself and stand up. It seems that perhaps Harlan will walk away unscathed and even learn a lesson from the experience. However, he seals his fate when he’s compelled to say, “I shoulda gone ahead and fucked her.” When Louise turns and asks him to repeat himself, he responds, “Suck my cock,” a fitting sentiment to preface Thelma’s phallic gun exploding and hitting him in the chest. We gather throughout the film that something happened to Louise in Texas, and it quickly becomes clear that she was the victim of a rape. Gender-based violence is turned on its head as Louise assumes a position of power, and thus a codified male position. Thelma’s situatedness within this hierarchy is slow to align with that of the hot-tempered Louise, but when she does transition from “feminine” to “feminist,” she admits that she seems to “have a knack for this shit.” Shortly before their deaths, Thelma tells Louise that she’s never felt so awake, alerting us that she’s reached a sort of nirvana amidst the mini liquor bottles and desert heat.
We can appreciate Louise’s sense of humor in this moment of tension: “You let her go, you fuckin’ asshole, or I’ll splatter your ugly face all over this nice car.”
Immediately after the incident, Louise cradles the gun in her hands as the two ride away, as if she’s trying to grasp the power the small pistol carries. The naive Thelma believes that they can safely go to the police and explain that it was self-defense, but Louise offers the reality that “we don’t live in that kind of a world.” Rather, we live in a world that punishes women for attracting men and “asking for it” with our clothing or our smiles. “If you weren’t concerned with having so much fun, we wouldn’t be here right now,” Louise accusingly tells Thelma. Although Louise is the one to shoot and kill Harlan, she inevitably blames the entire incident on Thelma’s good looks and also acts as a surrogate Darryl, which Thelma even articulates early on in the trip. Thelma is almost childlike in her naiveté, which calls for a guardian or a mother to constantly reprimand her and correct her behavior. Louise maintains this role as she protects and guides Thelma for most of the film.
The men in the film seem to get themselves into hot water over the lewd and otherwise disrespectful ways they choose to speak to Thelma and Louise.
So, does Louise successfully avenge Thelma’s assault or does she have her own axe to grind? Is Louise, a killer, any better than Harlan or any other rapist slithering through crowded bars or dark streets? Thelma and Louise offers a feminist catharsis for women viewers, particularly those who are rape survivors, but also for all of us who have been cat-called as perpetual objects of the male gaze. How many of us now fantasize about blowing up a semi because its driver was making lecherous comments or gesturing with his hands or tongue? This film serves as a reminder that we deserve to live our lives in peace, free from harassment, and to stop apologizing for ourselves or assuming that our clothing is an invitation for men to put their hands on us. While Louise makes the decision to repress the memory of her own rape, she actively chooses to avenge the rape of her friend. Although a murderer, Louise is a hero as she likely prevents any rapes Harlan would have committed had she allowed him to live.
It’s gratifying to witness the transition of the pair’s feminine and feminist identities. While Thelma makes the noticeable shift from a bored housewife planning dinner to a badass outlaw with a gun, Louise comes to recognize her companion as an equal and to surrender some of her power before the two fly into the Grand Canyon in a blaze of girl-power glory. Louise identifies her friend’s rape as her own, and unlike Thelma, she is familiar with what some men are capable of in dark parking lots. The dynamic that propels the plot of Thelma and Louise is friendship, even if that entails a sort of religious awakening on the road (Kerouac style), albeit it via gender equality by way of violence and its appropriation. Notice that the women and their actions are met with disdain when they demonstrate traditionally “masculine” behavior, such as anger, aggression, and sarcasm. When Louise initially orders Harlan to stop attacking Thelma, he ignores her; when Thelma finally tells Darryl to go fuck himself, he slams the phone down in disbelief; when the horny trucker discovers that the ladies expect an apology instead of a threesome, he calls them “crazy.” The women’s actions, then, are met with resistance by most of the men they encounter on their travels, with the exceptions of Hal (Harvey Keitel), the kindhearted cop who longs to help the women, and JD, Thelma’s paramour for one rainy night.
JD steals the money that Louise calls their “future” in Mexico but also unknowingly offers a remedy to their money crisis when he gives Thelma some charismatic lessons on how to rob a store at gunpoint.
I would suggest that these actions are not meant so much to heal or cleanse the two of their pain or their own crimes, but to “right a wrong” even if it means sacrificing their freedom; in this way, the women discover a new sense of liberation that transcends the pursuit of them in their beat up old Thunderbird convertible. Toward the end of the film, Thelma shares with Louise that if Harlan had completed his assault against her, people would think that she was “asking for it,” and that she’s sorry it wasn’t her that pulled the trigger. What we can conclude from this exchange is that any course of events post-rape would leave Thelma “ruined” in some way, but she explains that because of her friend, now she’s at least having fun.
Jenny Lapekas has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University. Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema. You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.
