Gender – Bitch Flicks

Why Skittles’ ‘Bite-Size Horror’ Is the Perfect Metaphor for American Society

This guest post written by Lisette Voytko appears as part of our theme week on Women in Horror.

If you’re anything like me and millions of Americans, you tuned into the Yankees v. Indians ALDS game on Wednesday evening, October 11th. Despite the Yankees’ incredible comeback win, one commercial break might have left you fraught with tension.

Skittles, a brand that’s no stranger to oddball advertising, chose that night to debut the latest in Mars’ #BiteSizeHorror campaign, called “Floor 9.5.”

Skittles TV Commercial, ‘FOX: Bite Size Horror’

Running a full two minutes, instead of the usual 30-second slot reserved for commercials, viewers follow an unnamed female office worker on her way home from the office. Did you watch it? Good.

Because, broken down, frame by frame, the two-minute spot is a microcosm of what it’s like to live in the U.S. today. Here’s how it works: We open on our protagonist (Georgina Campbell, “the first Black actress to win a BAFTA“), a 20-something Black woman. It’s nighttime; she’s on her way home from a long day at the office. The clock strikes midnight.

We get a full-body glimpse of our protagonist, getting into the elevator. She’s carrying a heavy tote bag, and an office-appropriate trench coat. Notable here are her shoes: athletic trainers indicative of commuters everywhere. Judging by her lack of blazer, high heels, or other “power” attire, it’s safe to assume she’s a lower-level corporate denizen. She’s probably ambitious, given that she put in a ridiculously long day, and her exhaustion clearly shows.

Our protagonist steps into the elevator, and we get a good look at her haircut and blouse. Her hair is the kind of bob made popular by Taylor Swift. Her blouse is buttoned to the top button, a common styling choice for young urbanites. You could easily picture her hanging out at Coachella, or having after-work drinks at a hip bar. You can imagine she’s still paying off her student loans, having obtained a degree at a pricey private university in order to land her current job.

The elevator goes haywire, stranding our protagonist onto a Being John Malkovich-ish floor existing between levels 9 and 10. The doors open. A bald white man, dressed in a black suit, faces away from the camera.

“I need your help,” he says in a low voice. “I need your help.”
“What?” asks the protagonist, stepping out of the elevator.

This exchange, although quite basic, is reminiscent of the existing power dynamic between American men and women at work. But let’s go back to what the man is wearing. His suit is considered power attire, and by its formal nature, indicates he’s higher up on the corporate ladder than the protagonist. His baldness indicates that he’s probably older, which typically means he’s higher-ranking. And men are more likely to be promoted at work, and to sit in the C-suite. 30% more likely, in fact.

Keeping all of this in mind, the protagonist gets out of the elevator to help. Because it’s in her nature to do so. And the man directly asks for her help, because it’s in his nature do so, too. Although there are always exceptions to the rule, of course. And these gendered behaviors may be a result of socialization, or socialization in conjunction with nature. Here, she’s trying to help him. She wants to see his face, and understand why he’s here, and why he’s acting so strangely. He asks her to turn around, and she complies. Because, again, she wants to help (and get the hell out of there, too.) But the difference between these two people never becomes more apparent than this frame of their legs, turning in tandem. Her commuter shoes and cropped slacks are in contrast with the man’s suit trousers and highly-polished loafers. Those loafers look expensive, don’t you think?

A study conducted by the University of Zürich found “women were more likely to get a dopamine rush when doing something for others, while men are more likely to do so when they are acting in their own self-interest.” We cut to a wide shot of the man, having successfully convinced the protagonist to turn around, dashing towards the elevator – towards his presumed freedom. “I’m sorry!” he shouts, before the elevator doors close in the protagonist’s face. She’s stranded. And she looks terrified.

Women tend to apologize more than men, although the impetus behind each gender’s mea culpas are quite different. Women say sorry in an attempt to appear more likable, while men will do so in recognition of inconveniencing another. The man, by stranding our protagonist, has certainly inconvenienced her by acting in his own self-interest. That’s an apology well-warranted. And, you have to wonder: why didn’t he grab her hand on his run back to the elevator? Perhaps, even in dire circumstances, white male privilege still reigns.

Our final frame leaves our protagonist where the bald man started. “I need your help,” she says to the next victim: a bespectacled white man in shirt sleeves and a tie. Due to the gender wage gap, which especially impedes Black women and Latina women, he probably earns more money than our protagonist and he may have a higher position, too. And we know that she’s about to have her revenge, perpetuating the cycle on floor 9.5. Or maybe she won’t? Who’s to say the bespectacled man won’t just leave her there, standing still, frozen in perpetuity?

And why is this happening, in this specific office building? What is the purpose? Where is this sort of demonic possession coming from? And what happens to each victim after they screw over their successor?

There are many circumstances, specific to American culture in 2017’s place and time, that allegorize this story. For example:

Why this office building? Well, Americans are working longer hours than ever. Perhaps this is the price you pay for giving your life away to a corporation.
What’s the purpose of this? Americans are scientifically proven to be selfish.
Because of the gender wage gap in the U.S., women are paid 80% of what men make. Black women are paid 63% and Latina women are paid 54% of what white men make.
What happens to each victim? Assuming the elevator returns victims to their normal, 9-to-5 life, it’s not hard to believe they would go about their days with a higher degree of distrust and isolation than before. It’s symptomatic of the divisive political atmosphere permeating the U.S. since the 2016 election.

Director Toby Meakins told AdWeek that the concept of the “loop/hell,” that he and writer Simon Allen collaborated on, is “intended to be a metaphor for modern working life.” Meakins said that they wanted the ad to evoke Black Mirror as well as a “short Kafkaesque nightmare.”

But the “Kakfaesque nightmare” is the reality of social, political, and economic issues affecting society, imprinted on Americans’ collective unconscious. This commercial illustrates how deep the nightmare goes; that inequalities exist in the most dire, uncertain circumstances. And women are suffering the most for it. If our protagonist can’t be saved by her colleagues from an everlasting loop of hell, how can our entire gender at large expect fair, equitable treatment? Like it or not, #BiteSizeHorror is a bite-size slice of the current turbulence in American society.

Lisette Voytko is a freelance journalist living in Brooklyn, New York. Her work has appeared in Thrillist, The Video Game History Foundation, xoJane, Femsplain, and Task & Purpose. Find her on Twitter @lisettevoytko.

On Our Terms: A Black [Women’s] Horror Film Aesthetic

What horrors are directly related to Black women? What elements, themes, aesthetic appeal would make a horror film a solid example of Black female centrality and agency? And even still, strike fear in a universal audience… Our ghosts: how are they different?

This guest post written by Ashlee Blackwell originally appeared at Graveyard Shift Sisters and appears here as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. It is cross-posted with permission.

Black Aesthetics. It was a class I took as an undergraduate many years ago. What defined the term for the purposes of the course began with how Africans from thousands of years ago developed a culture of leisure, creation for pleasure in what is seen. The word aesthetic by its very meaning is “concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty” and more openly, “a set of principles underlying and guiding the work of a particular artist or artistic movement.” Our numerous discussions naturally shifted to the present and understanding of what encompasses Black aesthetics today on our terms. Specifically an African American aesthetic.

There is a reason why Patricia Hill Collins’ flagship book, Black Feminist Thought notes the critical implications of experience in her theory. When a “historically oppressed group” such as Black women produce “social thought designed to oppose oppression… not only does the form assumed by this thought diverge from standard academic theory — it can take the form of poetry, music, essays, and the like,” opposing racist and sexist practices imposed upon their livelihood in these ways. Simply put, “U.S. Black women participated [and continue to participate] in constructing and reconstructing these oppositional knowledges. Through the lived experiences gained within their extended families and communities, individual African American women fashioned their own ideas about the meaning of Black womanhood.”

There is a daily, moment by moment struggle with intersectionality. Black women can and do, many times, never, and/or always, magnify our individual and communal Black aesthetic as a part of our identities, bridging our experiences as Black women to our interests.

Tales from the Crypt: Demon Knight (1995) directed by Ernest R. Dickerson

This experience could carry so remarkably in horror films. Sometimes discussions on cinematic horror efforts by Black women focus on whether we could even classify the text as horror. Eve’s Bayou, Beloved, rely on a significant degree of supernatural elements to tell their stories. Instead of imagining horror, death, gore and the grotesque, supernatural beings in excess, the emphasis should always be on the attempts at soliciting fear and unease in an audience. With horror, that is the base. What creates a comfortable classification are elements that break the fourth wall: demons, goblins, ghosts, killers, zombies, and various other personifications suspended in the unknown.

I’m deeply curious as to why horror isn’t a space where a number of Black women are exercising cinematic efforts in tackling supernatural stories that feel familiar. I hear it time a plenty about other female horror filmmakers utilizing the horror genre as an exorcise in personal fears embedded in their womanhood. Wretched (2007) does this, Hollywood Skin (2010) also. What horrors are directly related to Black women? What elements, themes, aesthetic appeal would make a horror film a solid example of Black female centrality and agency? And even still, strike fear in a universal audience…

Our ghosts: how are they different?

Ghost stories are so prevalent because every single culture on the planet has a mythos surrounding them. They vary in form and symbolism so much, I’d be here for weeks non-stop writing what I wanted to be a thoughtful essay into a book. But imagine ghosts acting as direct reflectors of our fears an anxieties. Or as malevolent guides into the nightmares faced by Black mothers losing their sons at disproportionate rates. Ancestors past who fought for equality, those that didn’t, suspended in acquiescence. The possibilities are limitless.

Tales From The Hood (1995) accomplished this to an extent. Although male-centric, it opened the door for opportunities in depicting the fear in African American men’s lived experiences. Crazy K in a nuanced way haunted the minds of his three killers in a snapshot of violence amongst Black males in the 1990s.

For Black women, we could ask ourselves how ghosts would play a role in our physical and psychological undoing. How our spirits are unique to our beings?

The grotesque: Our bodies in historical context.

Research, work, and talk about a Black woman’s body is never done. My recent delve into critical reading on artist Kara Walker’s “A Subtlety or the Marvelous Sugar Baby” exhibit by the prolific Dr. Brittney Cooper and other cultural and social news monitoring, lately involving Nicki Minaj, points directly at a long history of complicated approaches to perception, agency and authority about the Black female body. Once mandated as livestock, ripe for breeding under the most inhumane and psychologically frightening circumstances. This history is taught in these essays, in college classrooms and so forth because of an argument that surrounds the cycle of a time where literal ownership over our bodies were littered with an ideology that places an unwavering burden of negativity on our physical selves. Our lips are too big, our voices are too deep, our skin is too dark, our hair is abnormally textured.

Goodnight My Love (2012) directed by Kellee Terrell

A Twitter inquiry from model and filmmaker Lary Love Dolley pointed directly towards tackling these issues within the horror genre. With fervent excitement, I assume she is looking into developing a horror film surrounding the pervasive perm, hair straightening process when she asked if it had been done before. I’ve personally never seen a film that has, but I imagine the vast possibilities for discussion and extreme special makeup effects! We are taught we are the antithesis of beauty, yet we “produce an opposed thought and aesthetic” designed to challenge history as it carries into the present.

I’ve been attempting to conceptualize a space for Black voices in the horror film genre for awhile now. Imagining new ideas for thought when we think about what a “Black horror film” is and how we can take our definitions further. Our experiences and cultural productions are so convoluted as to be so ripe for cinematic exploration in genre film, that it would bring a fresh flood of originality horror desperately needs.

The top image is a still from Ganja & Hess (1973) directed by Bill Gunn.

Ashlee Blackwell is the founder and managing editor of Graveyard Shift Sisters, a website dedicated to highlighting the work of women of color in the horror and science fiction genres. She holds a MA in Liberal Arts from Temple University and aspires to bring intersectional horror into the college classroom.

‘Metropolis’ and ‘Ex Machina’: Portrayals of Gender, Technology, and Society

‘Metropolis’ and ‘Ex Machina’ are merely the oldest and one of the most recent examples, respectively, in a long line of films (and texts) that associate women with technology in this manner, presenting them as potent and potential threats to societal order and to the men who create and aim to control them.

Guest post written by Deborah Krieger. | Spoilers ahead.

Fritz Lang’s 1927 silent film Metropolis and Alex Garland’s 2015 film Ex Machina share many commonalities. While these two sci-fi films come from different countries (Germany and the UK, respectively) and from wildly differing eras, social contexts, and technological standpoints, both films have much in common in terms of their portrayals of gender, as well as the key association of technology with social class divides. They also represent an ascribing of an inhuman machine-influenced identity to those who work with said technology, creating a blurring of the lines between man and machine. I will compare and contrast how these two films, made nearly ninety years apart from one another, represent the male and female genders as well as divergent views on the purposes, users, and creators of technology, highlighting the ways in which Ex Machina is indebted to and reflects its predecessor.

In Metropolis, technology is depicted as necessary for all of society to coexist. Yet it is associated with the working class — particularly the male worker — who must give their blood, sweat, and labor to the “Heart Machine” located underground in the City of the Workers, depicted at the opening of the film. The workers of Metropolis are not only associated with machines and technology through their daily labor, but they are also depicted as extremely robotic, monotonous, and identical in their movements. They are all dressed in the same masculinized dark clothing and live what could be called robotic lifestyles, following the same work schedule day in and day out. Even the workers’ walking is mechanized in the shift change scene. Apart from Maria, the only named members of the working class are male: Grot (Heinrich George), the foreman and Georgy/11811 (Erwin Biswanger), an aspect highlighted by Gabriela Stoicea in her article “Re-Producing the Class and Gender Divide: Fritz Lang’s Metropolis,” in which she discusses Karl Marx’s de-emphasizing of the female worker within the context of labor:

“One of the most striking elements in this sequence is the complete absence of women and children, as male workers return to a seemingly deserted city […] by all rules of logic, the so-called worker’s city in Metropolis should therefore be a space inhabited mostly by women and children. Visually, however, there are next to no traces of their existence […] Additionally, Marx himself refused to acknowledge the importance of women’s domestic labor for the daily reproduction of workers’ labor power since it was not remunerated financially.” (Stoicea, 25)

In stark contrast to the working class, the wealthy class, of which the protagonist Freder (Gustav Fröhlich) belongs, lives far above the city in the “Club of the Sons,” where they are surrounded by lush, ethereal flora of the “Pleasure Gardens” and are free to move about, to run, to dance as they wish to, with highly differentiated forms of dress and body language. When we are first introduced to the “Club of the Sons,” we see young men and women cavorting in a fantastical garden landscape, replete with strange plants and a bubbling fountain. The women — described by Stoicea as “prostitutes” (Stoicea, 32) — wear ornate, highly sexualized dresses, while the men are largely dressed in white — a symbol of luxury in that one must have the resources to clean the material if it gets dirty, which the inhabitants of the “Club of the Sons” clearly do.

While Metropolis assigns technology and machinery to a (masculinized) working class, Ex Machina clearly associates technology, as well as the subsequent dehumanization of its users and makers, with the wealthy upper class and with more pastoral elements (see Figures 3-7 in Appendix A), yet still maintains a highly masculinized atmosphere. Nathan Bateman (Oscar Isaac), the creator of the Google- and Facebook-esque site Bluebook is depicted as incredibly well-off, with an entire underground compound filled with cutting edge software and hardware, hidden away on a massive tract of land (rather than in an urbanized environment). In Metropolis, the most advanced technology is in the Pleasure Garden itself, kept away from the lowly Underground City.

Bluebook is the creation that gained Nathan his fame and fortune; notably, Nathan’s creation of the female robots, Kyoko (Sonoya Mizuno) and Ava (Alicia Vikander), is not necessary for his economic survival. These female robots are merely prototypes created for his enjoyment in a variety of ways both servile and sexual; their use connects the technology depicted in Ex Machina with the leisure and privilege of the upper classes, rather than as something necessary for societal order and human survival. While arguably we could consider Bluebook, like Facebook and Google, to be necessary for humanity to some degree, these internet applications are not nearly as integral to the simple mechanical functioning of society in the way that the complex machinery is in Metropolis.

Additionally, while women are also hinted at as existing within a technological/labor-based context in Ex Machina, they are not even remotely important to the plot; in the beginning sequence of the film when Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) learns he has won a prize allowing him to meet Nathan, the reclusive creator of Bluebook, there are various out-of-focus shots of female figures within the context of the Bluebook workplace, as well as text messages on Caleb’s phone from unseen female co-workers. However, it is the female robots, rather than the male humans, who propel the film’s climax and ending.

The archetype of the female robot, or “fembot,” has long been a popular figure in media, be it live-action film, cartoons, comics, novels, and more. Many societies have grappled with this powerful but dangerous figure, giving us works as different in tone and theme as Blade Runner (directed by Ridley Scott, 1982) and Austin Powers (directed by Jay Roach, 1997-2002) from the U.S. as well as Chobits (manga by CLAMP; 2000-2002) and Ghost in the Shell (directed by Mamoru Oshii, 1995) from Japan. Metropolis and Ex Machina are merely the oldest and one of the most recent examples, respectively, in a long line of films (and texts) that associate women with technology in this manner, presenting them as potent and potential threats to societal order and to the men who create and aim to control them.

In Metropolis, the female robot in question is a recreation of the inventor Rotwang (Rudolf Klein-Rogge)’s beloved Hel, who married the city’s leader, Joh Fredersen (Alfred Abel), and gave birth to Freder. When Joh Fredersen learns of Rotwang’s creation and of Maria (Brigitte Helm), the woman from the Underground City who prophesies the mediation of the two classes, he convinces Rotwang to give the robot Maria’s image, intended be a demagogue, to fool the workers into violently rioting and to lead them to their own destruction. The robot Maria (aka “Maschinenmensch”) goes on to perform an extremely sexualized, hypnotic dance for the wealthy young men of the Club of the Sons, using her body for the purposes of her creator.

Ava and Kyoko in Ex Machina share several common aspects with the robot Maria in Metropolis, but they also differ in some key ways. Ava and Kyoko are both created for sexualized purposes. It is unclear that Kyoko (who writer Zhuojie Chen called “a white man’s plot device“) is actually a machine until late in the film, as Caleb — and the audience by proxy — assumes she is a human woman who does not understand English and thus does not speak. In fact, Kyoko is a robot with whom Nathan engages sexually, and Ava, it is revealed, is also created to respond to intercourse, as Nathan tells Caleb:

“You bet she can fuck […] in between her legs, there’s an opening with a concentration of sensors. If you engage them in the right way, it creates a pleasure response. So if you wanted to screw her, mechanically speaking, you could, and she’d enjoy it.”

Thus the male sexual consumption of the female robot hinted at in Metropolis is taken to its literal extreme in Ex Machina. Later in the film, it is revealed that Caleb was not randomly selected to meet Nathan and perform the Turing test on Ava; his internet searches and pornography preferences were used in constructing Ava’s face and body, thus emphasizing the extreme disconnect between the creation of the robots in Metropolis and Ex Machina. In the former, the robot is created for love and is corrupted to perform evil tasks, whereas Ava was designed and programmed from the start to be able to hurt and manipulate Caleb.

Additionally, the female robots in Metropolis and Ex Machina both make use of the media in which they are represented to complete their seduction of the male characters in a rather self-referential way — and, in the case of Ex Machina, the seduction of the audience through Caleb. Metropolis is a silent film; therefore the robot Maria must use her body in order to establish her power, which she does during her dance sequence. Even if she speaks, the audience cannot hear her — we can only read her words in the intertitles — so her seduction of the audience must be as effective as her seduction of the characters in the text; thus the focus on her scantily-clad physical form. Conversely, Ex Machina has the benefit of being a non-silent film, which allows Ava to seduce both Caleb and the audience with her body language as well as with her voice and personality, revealed in their ongoing conversations. Thus, we see a similarity between the methods of these two female robots, even if their texts differ in technological capabilities.

Both films use dance sequences to create a sense of confusion in a designated male viewer or viewers, controlled by the male masters of the robot in question; Maria dancing for the wealthy men of the city, orchestrated by Joh Fredersen and Rotwang, is echoed in the seemingly randomly-inserted disco sequence in which Kyoko and Nathan perform a routine in unison while Caleb can only watch, horrified and uneasy. Indeed, Ex Machina‘s dance sequence has several visual parallels to that in Metropolis, including the way the dancing female robots are shot: from the front, with circular decorations in the background, and a focus on the sexualized, half-dressed female body in motion (see Figures 1 and 2 in Appendix A). Director Alex Garland said in an interview with Wired that he wanted to avoid making viewers think of Metropolis’s Maria when designing Ava, but it seems that he still owes the earlier film a debt in terms of the narrative weight and significance of their dance scenes and depiction of gender.

While the female robots of Metropolis and Ex Machina are important characters within their respective films, they are far from the main protagonists. In what is perhaps a reference to Freder’s narrative journey from innocence to disenchanted knowledge, Ex Machina’s Caleb undergoes a similar trajectory. Both characters begin the film in one world, only to have their lives changed upon visiting an entirely different world — in both cases, literally an underground world. Freder spends the beginning of Metropolis gallivanting in the Pleasure Gardens without a care in the world, but soon learns of the oppression of the lower class when he visits the Underground City and meets Maria, who prophesies a promise of peace and resolution.

Likewise, Caleb begins in the historical world in a brief prologue, where it is revealed that he has won the fateful contest. As he descends into Nathan’s compound, his optimism and ability to trust are constantly tested by Nathan as well as by Ava, to the point where Caleb becomes unsure of whether he himself is an actual human being. Caleb reaches a turning point after a session with Ava, as well as his discovery of videotapes in which Nathan’s older robot models destroy themselves trying to break free. He begins to doubt his own humanity in the light of Nathan’s cavalier approach to creating and destroying life in his robots, so to speak, and in a particularly gruesome scene, slices open a vein on his forearm to make sure he can bleed. It is also during this sequence that Caleb makes the decision — or so he believes — to betray Nathan and help Ava escape.

One other major difference between these two films is the depiction (or lack thereof) of the robot women’s potential for subjectivity. In Metropolis, only the workers and young men of the Club of the Sons believe that the robot Maria is human; Rotwang and Joh Fredersen know the truth, and their point of view holds sway as they manipulate the robot Maria’s body for their own purposes. As an audience, we are never sure whether the robot Maria has a consciousness or independent will. This issue is touched upon in the film, as Rotwang assures the real Maria:

“Joh Fredersen is looking for an excuse to use violence against the workers […] she will destroy their belief in the Mediator! But she is only a machine — made to obey my will. While my power holds, she will do so […] but already I feel I have lost that power, and I am fearful of the consequences!”

However, the audience never sees Rotwang’s apprehension result in any actions of which Joh Fredersen would not have approved. Conversely, the main thrust of Ex Machina‘s narrative is devoted to Caleb’s exploration about whether Ava has a consciousness, a subjectivity, or is merely programmed to act the way she does. In contrast to Metropolis, which only mentions a loss of control briefly, Ex Machina seems to answer this question in the affirmative, as Ava takes the initiative to turn Kyoko against Nathan, kill him, and abandon Caleb to die. Her actions indicate that Ava has, for all intents and purposes, free will, or at least a desire for self-preservation at all costs, in the light of her and Caleb’s realization that Nathan plans to disassemble her when he builds an upgrade.

Of course, it is also possible that the sadistic Nathan could have given Ava and Kyoko a desire to escape as part of their design (rather than such a desire being evidence of AI), only to torture them by refusing to set them free, which might have led them to self-destruct as earlier models are shown to have done. When Ava and Kyoko turn on Nathan, we see Ava whispering something indecipherable in Kyoko’s ear, which might be what switches Kyoko from acting obedient to seeking retribution. Additionally, it could be argued either way that Kyoko revealing herself as a robot to Caleb is part of Nathan’s programming, or that it represents Kyoko rebelling against her creator, thus hinting at a level of AI capabilities she had not previously demonstrated.

Yet through the changing of the point of view in the last sequences of the film from Caleb, trapped in a room of the compound, to Ava, who leaves the compound in the helicopter and enters the human world, we see that Ava has a consciousness and becomes, for the last few minutes, a de facto co-protagonist of the story. Even if her wants and desires are indeed programmed to a degree, the fact that Ava has such feelings and is able to act upon them is evidence that Nathan cannot ultimately control his creation, while in Metropolis, it is less certain whether Rotwang ever truly loses control.

It’s particularly interesting to think about the way Ava performs humanity within the context of Descartes, whose famous quotation “I think, therefore I am,” complicates how we might think about the difference between a human and a machine. According to Neil Badmington, Descartes does not separate humanity versus machinery by virtue of bodily differences — i.e. flesh-and-blood versus hardware — but rather, through the possession of “reason,” which is “the only thing that makes us men and distinguishes us from the beasts” (Descartes in Badmington, 16). However, Badmington challenges Descartes’s certainty, imagining the following hypothetical:

“If a machine — in keeping with the spirit of his fantastic scenario — were constructed in such a way that it had what might be called ‘an organ for every occasion,’ it would, according to the letter of Descartes’s own argument, no longer be possible to maintain a clear distinction between the human and the inhuman. Given enough organs, a machine would be capable of responding in a manner utterly indistinguishable from that of a human being. Reason, no longer capable of ‘distinguish[ing] us from the beasts,’ would meet its match, its fatal and flawless double.” (Badmington, 18)

There can be little doubt that Ava fulfills this prophecy; over the course of the film, it becomes increasingly clear that she is “capable of responding in a manner utterly indistinguishable from that of a human being” (Badmington, 18), much to Nathan’s and Caleb’s detriment. As Garland’s inspiration for the film came from a conversation with his neuroscientist friend who argued that machines could never have consciousness, this ending serves to make his point that much more strongly.

The endings of Metropolis and Ex Machina differ on the relationship between technology and humankind, and present outcomes at the opposite ends of the spectrum. At the end of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen (the “head”) and the engineer Grot (“the hands”) are joined in solidarity and unity by Freder, the prophesied mediator (the “heart”), ultimately representing a happy ending and a promise of coexistence. In contrast, the ending of Ex Machina nullifies this premise, presenting humanity and technology as forces at cross-purposes (despite Garland’s claim that it’s “a pro-AI movie”): Nathan intends to destroy Ava when he makes a newer model of the AI; in return for this mistreatment, Ava and Kyoko turn on Nathan and Caleb, betraying them, stabbing Nathan, and leaving Caleb to die in the sealed-off compound while Ava, disguised as a human, escapes into the real world. The endings of Metropolis and Ex Machina prove particularly ironic, given that Lang was critical of industrialization, while Garland, who deems Ex Machina “pro-AI” sets machines and humans at odds by the film’s end. As technology and robotics improve within our society, it remains to be seen which film’s view is more accurate: whether these new machines, designed to be so like us, will be friend, foe, or more.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

On Ex Machina, Artificial Intelligence of Color, and How to Become a (White) Woman

Ex Machina: Scavenging for Parts in a Patriarchal World

Ex Machina‘s Failure to Be Radical: Or How Ava Is the Antithesis of a Feminist Cyborg

Ex Machina and Her: Dude, the Internet’s Just Not That Into You

Manic Pixie Revolutionary Awakenings

Literature Cited:

Anders, Charlie Jane. “From Metropolis to Ex Machina: Why Are So Many Robots Female?” io9, April 21, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Badmington, Neil. “Theorizing Posthumanism.” Cultural Critique, No. 53, Posthumanism (Winter, 2003): 10-27. Web. 8 May 2016.

Garland, Alex. “Ex Machina’s Director on Why A.I. is Humanity’s Last Hope.” Interview with Angela Watercutter. Wired, April 7, 2015. Web. 8 May 2016.

Johnson, Kjerstin. “How ‘Ex Machina’ Toys with its Female Characters.” Bitch Media, May 8, 2015. 8 May 2016.

Rose, Steve. “Ex Machina and sci-fi’s obsession with sexy female robots.” The Guardian, January 15, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Stoicea, Gabriela. “Re-Producing the Class and Gender Divide: Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.” Women in German Yearbook, Vol. 22 (2006): 21-42. 8 May 2016.

Watercutter, Angela. “Ex Machina Has a Serious Fembot Problem.” Wired, April 9, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Appendix A:

Figure 1. Maria dances in Metropolis.

Figure 2. Kyoko dances in Ex Machina.

Figure 3. The City of the Workers, Metropolis.

Figure 4. The Pleasure Gardens, Metropolis.

Figures 5-7. Stills from Ex Machina of Nathan’s compound.

Deborah Krieger is the curatorial assistant at the Delaware Art Museum as well as an arts and culture writer and Fulbright Austria alumna. She has written for BUST Magazine, PopMatters, Paste Magazine, Whitehot Magazine of Contemporary Art, The Mary Sue, and The Awl. She also runs her own art blog, I On the Arts, and curates her life in pictures @Debonthearts on Twitter and Instagram.

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

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

Written by Mychael Elaine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter the space monsters.

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

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

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

But look at where The Faculty lives on this graph:

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

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

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

They included female characters and gave them lines.

WHAT.

Yes, it’s that simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stokely also takes no shit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably not.

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

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

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

‘Kumu Hina’: Documentary on a Native Hawaiian Māhū (Transgender) Woman and Teaching the True Meaning of Aloha

‘Kumu Hina’ is a portrait of one activist working to preserve Native rights, culture, and dignity in a time when Native Sovereignty is being made more visible by events like the efforts of Water Protectors to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline. Hinaleimoana Wong-Kalu draws a direct and explicit link between honoring her māhū identity and helping her people preserve their culture. Like the māhū of generations past, Wong-Kalu has taken on the responsibility of sharing sacred knowledge with the next generation. She wants to share with her students the true meaning of aloha which, to her, means giving them unconditional acceptance and respect.

This guest post written by Gabrielle Amato-Bailey appears as part of our theme week on Indigenous Women.

Kumu Hina is a 2014 documentary directed by Dean Hamer and Joe Wilson, which follows Hinaleimoana Wong-Kalu, a māhū (transgender) Native Hawaiian school teacher, through a year in her life. The documentary begins by introducing Halau Lokahi, the public charter school where Wong-Kalu teaches hula. This school is “dedicated to native Hawaiian culture, language, and history… subjects long prohibited in Hawai’i’s Americanized education system.” This is followed by a brief animated introduction during which Wong-Kalu, through voiceover, introduces viewers to the Hawaiian concept of māhū: “those born ‘in the middle’” “who embrace both feminine and masculine traits that are embodied within each and every one of us.”

Wong-Kalu explains that in pre-colonial Hawai’i, māhū people held honored positions in society as healers, keepers of sacred wisdom, and teachers. It is clear that Wong-Kalu sees honoring her own māhū identity and preserving Hawaiian culture as deeply intertwined. In her introduction, she clearly ties respect for māhū to the body of Hawaiian traditions. Western missionaries condemned māhū individuals at the same time they forbade hula and other cultural expressions. This queer identity is part of traditional Hawaiian culture; the identity cannot be claimed without connecting with the Hawaiian heritage, and that heritage cannot be fully honored without respecting the gender identity. Wong-Kalu recalls that in her youth she was often made fun of for being too feminine, but found refuge in her cultural identity. The strength that she drew from connecting with her heritage led her to her purpose to “spread the true meaning of aloha.” Connecting with her Hawaiian heritage gave her the strength to be true to her gender identity, and being true to her gender identity seems to have led her to the traditional role of a māhū as a teacher. The documentary really illustrates this close connection by weaving together stories of Wong-Kalu’s personal and professional life. We follow her as she prepares her students for their end of year hula recital, and as she begins married life with her husband, Hema Kalu.

Wong-Kalu is the hula teacher at Halau Lokahi, and it is she who teaches students of all ages the traditional songs and dances of Hawai’i. The documentary focuses particularly on her high school age boys as they struggle to fully commit to their performance. Early on, we see Wong-Kalu demonstrate the chant to her students and how they imitate her very timidly, seemingly afraid to look silly. She demonstrates again, first telling them, “There’s nothing wahine about my voice.” Although Wong-Kalu later discusses her concerns about how her identity may impact her social life, she uses her māhū identity and gender fluidity to serve her students.

There is another reason that the documentary focuses on this particular group of students. A middle school student, Ho’onani Kamai, who is also a māhū person, has asked if she can be part of the high school boy’s performance. Wong-Kalu is originally hesitant to allow it because of possible backlash from parents, but considers it her job to nurture her students, not force them into gender identities or gender roles. Her presence ends up being to the benefit of the male students because Kamai is fully committed to the performance. Wong-Kalu describes her to the other students as someone who embodies Ku, or male energy. Wong-Kalu even plays to adolescent male pride, asking her male students if they’ll let themselves be outdone by a younger female student. In an interview, Kamai suggests that the high school boys struggle partly because they’re afraid to look foolish and partly because they think they don’t have to try very hard.

Kamai’s dedication and commitment pay off when, at the end of year recital, she is the one to lead the high school boys’ chant. Towards the end of the documentary, we see this group of students meeting again after their performance, and the boys all praise and thank Kamai for being a leader and teacher.

Throughout Wong-Kalu and Kamai’s journey together working on this performance piece, the documentary reveals to us how these two māhū individuals are received by their community. Other students at Halau Lokahi are quite comfortable with the māhū identity. Kamai is accepted by her peers and has friends, and the documentary even shows some of her classmates explaining what it means when someone is māhū. This broad acceptance from the students is obviously the result of the environment of respect and cultural pride that the school staff fosters in their students. During morning assembly, Principal Laara Allbrett reminds the students the importance of respecting their teachers by giving their full effort to their lessons, especially because her generation and those before were prevented from learning about their heritage as a colonized people. This sentiment is echoed by Kamai’s mother, for whom it is very important to see her children get the type of education she could not have, and she is comfortable with Kamai expressing her māhū identity. It is evident that Wong-Kalu’s philosophy that respecting the māhū identity is part of respecting and expressing traditional Hawaiian culture is shared by her community.

The final word on Wong-Kalu’s mentorship of Kamai comes before the end of year recital. Wong-Kalu takes her student aside and lets her know that as long as she’s in this supportive environment, she can express her māhū identity freely, but that this might not be the case everywhere. Wong-Kalu cautions Kamai that as a child she may have to go along with other’s expectations. She explains that, as an adult and someone who is confident in her identity, she doesn’t move for anyone at this point in her life, and that Kamai will also reach that point in her own life.

Running parallel to this story of the mentoring relationship is the story of Wong-Kalu’s relationship with her husband, Hema Kalu. Kalu is a Tongan man from Fiji, and the documentary picks up when his visa has finally come through and he can move to the U.S. Wong-Kalu describes her husband as a “full-on bush man,” and Kalu says of his life in Fiji that he was “poor but free.” In contrast to Wong-Kalu’s experience of Hawaiian tradition being supportive of the māhū identiy, Kalu describes Fiji as more conservative. He admits that at first he was hesitant to get involved with a māhū person because he was afraid of how his friends would perceive him. Wong-Kalu also expresses anxieties about “passing” (a controversial and problematic term to many trans women as it implies that there is a specific way women should look and behave, although for many trans people it is “rooted in a desire for safety“) for Kalu’s friends. They are both very protective of one another in the face of possible discrimination.

Conflict arises in the relationship between Wong-Kalu and Kalu for the same reasons as in any other relationship: expectations. On the one hand, Kalu seems to still have fairly traditional gender expectations for his marriage. He is extremely jealous and doesn’t want his wife to have any male friends. On the other hand, he struggles to adapt to more urbanized life in Hawai’i, and Wong-Kalu becomes extremely frustrated with him because of the time it takes him to adjust. Part of the conflict also seems to come from their age difference. Kalu is in his early 20s, while Wong-Kalu reaches her 40th birthday during the filming of the documentary. Some of Kalu’s behavior comes off as deeply immature and selfish. When Wong-Kalu invites him to attend her students’ mid-year concert, he takes a call on his cell during the performance and then rushes to leave to spend time with his friends. He also calls and interrupts Wong-Kalu several times during one of her classes. Kalu doesn’t seem to understand how important his wife’s work is to her.

Wong-Kalu discusses her concerns about being in a relationship at all, and whether she as a māhū person is maybe willing to put up with more conflict or disrespect in order to not be alone. At the same time, there is an obvious affection between her and Kalu. Towards the end of the documentary, he presents her with a birthday cake and gifts, singing “Happy Birthday.” Wong-Kalu expresses that, however things might turn out for her marriage, she is grateful to live in a place that allows her to be herself and love who she loves.

Kumu Hina is a portrait of one activist working to preserve Native rights, culture, and dignity in a time when Native Sovereignty is being made more visible by events like the efforts of Water Protectors to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline. Wong-Kalu is a cultural advocate, a teacher, and the chairperson of the Oahu Burial Council. She draws a direct and explicit link between honoring her māhū identity and helping her people preserve their culture. Like the māhū of generations past, Wong-Kalu has taken on the responsibility of sharing sacred knowledge with the next generation. She wants to share with her students the true meaning of aloha which, to her, means giving them unconditional acceptance and respect.

Gabrielle Amato-Bailey is just starting out as a freelance writer. In between paying gigs she writes about feminism, pop culture, and social justice.

‘Jurassic Park’: Resisting Gender Tropes

Yet in rewatching ‘Jurassic Park,’ it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

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

Largely, Steven Spielberg is not known for overtly feminist portrayals of women in film. His work primarily focuses on similar motifs, chiefly that of father/son relationships. Yet in rewatching Jurassic Park, it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

A paleobotanist, Dr. Ellie Sattler is clearly respected in her field of her work. Unlike previous female scientists, Ellie is not merely present to fulfill the Male Gaze, or to act as a plot device driving the narrative forward. Too often in film and TV, women scientists are there to either look attractive, or to simply proffer information to their male counterpart without little discussion. Here, Ellie is not only an expert in her field; she is respected by her colleagues.

Take for example the scene in which Ellie offers her ideas as to the reason the triceratops is ill.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JylK4HuKMvQ”]

Both Ellie and Dr. Alan Grant (Sam Neill) are overcome with emotion, seeing the real life incarnation of a species to which they have spent their lives devoted to. But while Alan remains enamored, Ellie quickly acts, readily questioning the other men around her as a means to solve the reasons behind the illness of the animal. She does not act subservient or submissive. While Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) balks at the nature of Ellie’s investigations (determining the animal’s food source by inspecting its droppings), Ellie remains unfazed. Until this point, Ian has seen Ellie as a potential love interest, and while he acknowledged her education, he readily used his interactions with her to both showcase his own knowledge, and as an opportunity to educate Ellie. He attempts to highlight her intellectual failings because she, as a paleobotanist, does not have an understanding of chaos theory.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-mpifTiPV4″]

It is not until Ian witnesses Ellie demonstrating her own knowledge that he acknowledges that her function is not to simply act as a love interest, prompting him to remark upon her “tenacious” nature. This remark, acknowledged by Ellie’s colleague and partner Alan, is said both admiringly and begrudgingly — almost as if Ellie’s refusal to conform to the role of an archetypal love interest is both pleasing to see and frustrating.

It would have been easy for Dern’s character to have simply performed the role of love interest for the men in the film, and indeed the men in the film often try to impress upon her (and each other) that this is the role that she can perform. Ellie is aware of this, and makes this clear when Ian, again demonstrating his intellect, remarks, “God creates dinosaurs. God destroys dinosaurs. God creates man. Man destroys God. Man creates dinosaurs.” Ellie’s wry response, in which she states, “Dinosaurs eat man. Woman inherits the earth,” demonstrates her awareness of her gender and her status.

While Ellie is Grant’s partner, her narrative is not dependent on her involvement with him, and indeed, much of her narrative development takes place away from Grant. Returning to the compound while Grant is left to look after the children (arguably taking on the maternal role), Ellie is compelled to offer her help in order to reboot the system. She is aware of the dangers, but does so anyway. Her action, which she quickly undertakes with little debate, is decisive. She knows that her help is needed and despite her fears, she rapidly offers her services. Both Muldoon (Bob Peck) and Arnold (Samuel L. Jackson) accept Ellie’s participation without question. It is only John Hammond (Richard Attenborough), far older than the rest, who questions her decision. It is interesting that it is Hammond who expresses his displeasure with her involvement in the mission, largely given the noticeable generation gap between the three men in the room. Perhaps this is Spielberg’s attempt at noting the necessary progression in the treatment of women. Ellie herself explicitly draws attention to Hammond’s objections, bluntly stating, “Look … We can discuss sexism in survival situations when I get back.”

Ellie is willing to get involved and does not require rescuing, unlike her partner Alan, who spends the majority of the film both fulfilling a maternal role, but also hoping to find safety. Ellie is already safe through her decision to stay with the triceratops, but she is prepared to risk this in order to guarantee the safety of others. Ultimately, it is Ellie that rescues Alan, Lex (Ariana Richards), and Tim (Joseph Mazzello) as it is through her actions that they can retreat from danger.

Despite this, Alan does still attempt to protect Ellie, requesting that she try to reboot the system while he holds the velociraptor at bay. Ellie recognizes that Alan will not be able to hold the door on his own, so once again acts to help him, and in doing so fulfills the same role as him. As the pair hold the door together, their roles are no longer gendered. Notably, it is the other female character in the room that saves the four here. Lex’s superior technological knowledge successfully reboots the system, meaning that she, along with Ellie, has helped to save those remaining on the island.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFJekvpaua4″]

Importantly, Ellie is not an overtly sexualized character nor is she there to serve as simple set decoration; her clothes and styling are functional and appropriate to her job. She is allowed to be intelligent and brave without acting hysterical or panicked. The film affords her a fully developed, engaging, and interesting role.

Given that such a representation can be present in a successful film, it seems even more of a misnomer that so few female scientists are depicted on-screen. As has been noted, the original Jurassic Park is arguably more positive in its portrayal of women than the recent Jurassic World. Why this regression?

It is easy to list some of the representations of female scientists, as if the exception proves the rule, but until such representations are entirely normalized, not enough work is being done.

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

Did Gender Alter the Tone of the ‘Alien’ Series? Narrative Implications of Femininity

It is science fiction fact however, that Ellen Ripley should not have been “Ellen Ripley” at all. Dan O’Bannon’s original script for ‘Alien’ stated: “The crew is unisex and all parts are interchangeable for men and women.” … In ‘Aliens,’ both Ripley and the alien are further solidified as female. …We come to an implied understanding that is wholly complicit in their both being mothers, adding a subliminal layer that would not have been present had either Ripley or the alien been male.

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

When Ridley Scott cast Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) in Alien, he created The First: The First Action Heroine; The First Female in a Science Fiction Film That Did Not Have To Be Rescued or Was Not Brunch for a Swamp Monster. Such titles may as well be monikers attached to her name. Ripley was important, and still is, her legacy living on in many an action heroine that followed: Buffy (the Vampire Slayer), The Bride (Kill Bill), G.I Jane, Trinity (The Matrix), Furiosa (Mad Max: Fury Road) and Sarah Connor’s transformation in Terminator 2.

It is science fiction fact however, that Ellen Ripley should not have been “Ellen Ripley” at all. Dan O’Bannon’s original script for Alien stated: “T he crew is unisex and all parts are interchangeable for men and women.” In the climate of the time, it is wholly plausible that Ripley was intended to be a male, as despite the script’s stated gender ambiguity, the original name for the character was still “Martin Roby.” So far so standard for horror and sci-fi, for the genres had always been male-dominated whether it be characters on-screen or in literature or those who create them. After all, it was not until the New Wave of sci-fi that women began to truly stake their claim on the genre, birthing feminist science fiction and writers such as Margaret Atwood, Joanna Russ, Marge Piercy, Ursula K. LeGuin and the singular entity that is Octavia Butler — C.L. Moore and Leigh Brackett being exceptions in the “Golden Age,” and Brackett went on to contribute to the screenplay of The Empire Strikes Back.

O’Bannon once stated that:

“I don’t see it as that revolutionary to cast a female as the lead in an action picture,” said O’Bannon. “It didn’t boggle me then, and it doesn’t boggle me now. My conception from scratch was that this would be a co-ed crew. I thought there was no reason you had to adhere to the convention of the all-male crew anymore.

After all, Star Trek had already had a mixed gender crew for years, and Ridley Scott had a similar reaction when the prospect of making the character female was pitched to him (“I just said, ‘That’s a good idea.”’). Scott later said in an interview:

“My film has strong women simply because I like strong women… It’s a personal choice. I’m no male chauvinist, nor do I understand female chauvinism – I just believe in the equality of men and women. It’s as simple as that.”

In Alien itself, Ripley – portrayed by the then largely unknown actress Sigourney Weaver – blended into the background of the team of the Nostromo crew; she was straightforward in conduct, voicing her opinion, making decisions, contributing to physical work and not waiting for someone else to save her. It can be intrinsically interpreted that these factors are entwined with the fact that Ripley’s character was intended to be male and, should “Martin Roby” have existed in her place he would have led the way as a main protagonist, one that is ultimately smarter than crewmembers with more authority.

Except nobody expected that of Ripley, solely because she was female. She was the ultimate unexpected protagonist, with the audience wholly expecting her to be snuffed out somewhere between the second and third act – because they had been conditioned their entire lives to do so. Her gender made her disposable – one only has to recall the aforementioned damsel vs. swamp monster scenario to consider how this should have played out. Yes, Ripley was female, but she was not feminine. That is the distinctive line here; she was not overtly sexualized (until she strips to her underwear near the culmination of the film: you can’t have it all, it seems), she fought back, she did not need to be rescued by a male, she wielded weapons: she defeated the “bad guy.” Due to the duality of the writing, Ripley became an androgynous entity in a fictional universe so symbolically enveloped in gender.

The Alien universe is primarily constructed around the perception of the “monstrous feminine” and plays into a lot of male-centric fears to do with gender alienation, with an aesthetic to follow suit. Renowned artist H.R Giger was in charge of designing the alien and set, and his explicit and sexually symbolic imagery can be viewed throughout, with phallic monsters hiding in a womb-shaped interior ready to pounce on unsuspecting victims. The Nostromo is the monstrous womb that births death, the gestation of that alien creature involving male rape – orally, impregnation and birth via the destruction of the male body; who can forget that iconic scene mid-film where the baby alien bursts through John Hurt’s chest, takes a look around at the crew’s horrified faces, before scurrying off into the unknown?

This narrative decision turns gender roles on its head and plays into male fears of human reproduction and that which they will never experience. It also draws from 1970s fears of “no longer being in control of our bodies,” as film studies professor Mark Jancovich asserted, thanks to “pollution, pesticides, food additives, man-made cancers” causing mutation. Extrapolating and combining the two sure makes for one horrific film. This monstrous amalgamation is culminated in a predatory creature that was designed by Giger to be both vaginal and phallic with a mysterious omnipresence onscreen. No character is sure what it is that they are facing.

Yet gender implications are reinforced in the making of the antagonist – the alien itself – female. Had Ripley’s character been “Roby” and the alien been male, the conflict would have been conventional. Had there been a binary gender-based conflict, e.g. Roby fought a female alien or had Ripley been a woman and the alien been male, it would have played into the perception of the “monstrous feminine” on alternate sides; the alien being primarily grotesque and man eating, with Ripley being similarly so for possessing male attributes of character. However, both Ripley and the alien are female, which makes for an interesting dilemma: both are considered to be “monstrous” and “feminine” despite neither possessing attributes of human femininity. Both are also capable of deploying death, to which men are either a spectator or a victim, which sparks Freudian psychology, simultaneously castration anxiety in males and possession of the phallus in females. So even though Ripley is female, are viewers actually still watching a protagonist that is essentially male?

This crisis of gender is complicated further as the Alien series progresses, as in Aliens – the 1986 sequel directed by James Cameron – both Ripley and the alien are further solidified as female. Cameron pushed the series into being specifically feminist, having Weaver reprise the role in more extreme circumstances. She gained a surrogate daughter – Newt – to protect, more men to fight and an Alien Queen – one who breeds – to defeat. Both the protagonist and antagonist (not the same alien) have graduated from being maidens to mothers. Both have dependents to protect. We first saw this side of Ripley when she went to find Jones – the Nostromo’s cat – in Alien, however it is important to point out aspect was part of the original script and not dependent on Ripley being female. Through the course of the film, we come to an implied understanding that is wholly complicit in their both being mothers, adding a subliminal layer that would not have been present had either Ripley or the alien been male.

By the time Alien 3 rolls around, it is quite clear where we stand, for whilst Alien subverted the genre and Aliens showed itself to be intrinsically feminist, Alien 3 fulfills the cycle of female purpose by casting Ripley as the “crone” of the “maiden-mother-crone” of the Triple Goddess interpretation of the female life cycle. She chooses to perish after discovering she is hosting an alien queen inside of her body, and as such, despite the franchise being perceived as a feminist one, the female protagonist has still been dragged back into a trope. It is an end that feels almost inevitable for the character – one that could have still been plausible had Ripley been “Roby” instead – yet is far more telling: the genre has to regain control of this strong female protagonist. Perhaps, in that manner, the real winner in this is the alien itself, for despite its specified gender, both it and its children continue to persist as a threat to humankind. Perhaps, the alien queen is the true exemption of this 1980s franchise.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Ellen Ripley, a Feminist Film Icon, Battles Horrifying Aliens… and Patriarchy

Kayleigh Watson is a writer and occasional illustrator from the UK. After realizing that her childhood ambition of being a vet would mean she would actually have to cut up pets (ew), she decided life would be better spent absorbing art and telling others about it. Her years spent studying for her BA (Hons) English and Creative Writing also involved music blogging, reading SF, and watching lots of Buffy. She currently writes about music for female-centric site The Girls Are as well as talking film and TV (or trying to) at her new blog Post-Modern Sleaze. A collection of her work can be found at what kayleigh said, and she tweets about all of the above under @kaylwattson. Her GIF game is strong.

‘Game of Thrones’ Week: The Roundup

Check out all of the posts from our ‘Game of Thrones’ Theme Week here.

Bowed, Bent, and Broken: Examining the Women of Color on Game of Thrones by Clara Mae

With the women of color being so scarce in the show, it’s just as important to look at the quality of these portrayals. While Game of Thrones does give us some strong women of color, many of them are portrayed problematically in their own ways: either put into subservient roles, exoticized, demonized, or otherwise discarded by the narrative in ways that the white characters aren’t.

Let’s Talk About the Children: War and the Loss of Innocence on Game of Thrones by Amy Woolsey

Children have always figured prominently in Game of Thrones, but their presence seems especially meaningful this [fourth] season, as we get a clearer glimpse of the war’s effect on bystanders, people not entrenched in political intrigue and behind-the-scenes strategizing.

Game of Thrones: Does It Feel Worse to Cheer For or Against Daenerys? by Katherine Murray

It’s hard to ignore that this is a white woman from a foreign nation who feels it’s her birthright to teach a bunch of brown people how they should behave. … On the flip side, watching a woman lose power on Game of Thrones always seems to involve watching her be sexually victimized somehow, which I can’t really get on board with, no matter how awful she is.

Why I Will Miss Ygritte’s Fierce Feminism on Game of Thrones by Jackie Johnson

Ygritte was fierce, she was vibrant, and she didn’t take any shit. Ygritte’s feminism was multi-dimensional, and for me she will always be missed.

When Brienne Met Jaime: The Rom-Com Hiding in Game of Thrones by Victoria Edel

But in that web of gloom, there’s this beautiful shining light: Brienne and Jaime. And while rom-coms are not often praised for their realism, to me, this couple is the most grounded, sensible thing about the show.

Game of Thrones: Catelyn Stark and Motherhood Tropes by Sophie Hall

Catelyn Stark’s main function in the show is to be a mother to Robb Stark, a prominent male character, whereas in the book series, A Song of Ice and Fire, she is so much more than that. … The show creators are here relying on mother tropes in order to set up the characters; Catelyn is now the nag who only cares about her family and nothing else, whereas Ned is now the valiant hero who wants to seek justice.

Game of Thrones: Is Jon Snow Too Feminine for the Masculine World? by Siobhan Denton

Whilst ostensibly male in terms of gender, Jon Snow’s character is arguably definably feminine through his actions, motivations and interactions with both female and male characters. … This is not to suggest that Jon’s character is not masculine; certainly his actions in battle signal him to be a hero in the archetypical sense, but I am suggesting that Jon Snow’s masculinity coexists with a feminine expression…

In Game of Thrones the Mother of Dragons Is Taking Down the Patriarchy by Megan Kearns

While many women orchestrate machinations behind the scenes, no woman is openly a leader, boldly challenging patriarchy to rule. Except for one. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.

Another Dead Sex Worker on Game of Thrones by Amanda Rodriguez

Even after the finale of its fourth season, the HBO series Game of Thrones continues its reputation for unpredictability and for subverting our genre expectations. However, a glaring pattern of predictability is emerging: all sex workers with significant roles will die horribly. Think about it.

“Love No One But Your Children”: Cersei Lannister and Motherhood on Game of Thrones by Sophie Hall

Cersei Lannister is cunning, deceitful, jealous and entirely about self-preservation. Yet, her show self seems to tie these exclusively with her relationship with her children… Why is motherhood the go-to in order to flesh out her character? Why can’t she be separate from her children, the same way the father of them, Jaime Lannister, is?

The Occasional Purposeful Nudity on Game of Thrones by Lady T

In fact, the difference between gratuitous nudity and artistic nudity is not that difficult to discern. Even Game of Thrones, the show that puts the word “tit” in “titillation,” occasionally uses nudity in a way that isn’t exploitative and adds to a scene rather than detracting from it.

Controversy is Coming for Game of Thrones by Rachel Redfern

Here’s the thing–for all of its controversy (which isn’t hurting the show’s viewership, I’m sure), people are still connecting to this show and are connecting to the terrible, senseless, often difficult situations that they have to struggle through. Game of Thrones offers us, and its characters, no clear way out of mess, no neatly tied up episode endings, hell, even the most devoted fans can only speculate on the series’ ending. This show hosts both the unknown future and the sadly familiar past of familial dysfunction and bad romantic choices.

Sex Workers Are Disposable on Game of Thrones by Gaayathri Nair

When we are introduced to Ros, she is working in Winterfell but as war approaches she decides to try her luck in King’s Landing expressing the view that if all the men leave for war there is not going to be much for her in Winterfell. Once there she goes from being “just a sex worker” to getting involved in the politics of the realm by becoming the right hand woman of Little Finger and subsequently double crossing him by becoming an agent for Varys. However despite her many interesting qualities and potential for interesting storylines, Ros basically exists for one reason to provide exposition regarding male characters on the show while naked. She is sexposition personified.

Masculinity in Game of Thrones: More Than Fairytale Tropes by Jess Sanders

Boys are judged on their ability to swing a sword or work a trade, criticised for showing weakness, and taught to grow up hard and cold. Doesn’t sound unfamiliar, does it? Masculinity is praised in Westerosi society, as it is in our own.

Game of Thrones: The Meta-Feminist Arc of Daenerys Targaryen by Amanda Rodriguez

The journey of Daenerys Targaryen is a prototype for female liberation, one that charts women’s emancipation over the centuries and encourages us to push harder and dream bigger for even more freedom now.

Here There Be Sexism?: Game of Thrones and Gender by Megan Kearns

I recognize that there’s a difference between displaying sexism because it’s the time period and condoning said sexism. But this IS a fantasy, not history, meaning the writers can imagine any world they wish to create. So why imagine a misogynistic one?

Motherhood in Film & Television: Spawning the World: Motherhood in Game of Thrones by Rachel Redfern

One of the aspects that struck me in the show though, is the portrayal of motherhood. Far from being absent or swept to the side, the film’s mothers are a driving force in the plot development and are some of the most multi-dimensional of the series (credit has to be given to the actresses who play them).

Gratuitous Female Nudity and Complex Female Characters in Game of Thrones by Lady T

Yes, Game of Thrones is a show that loves its nudity. HBO is known for gratuitous displays of naked ladies in many of its show, but Game of Thrones might as well exist on a network called HBOOB.

Game of Thrones Season 2 Trailer: Will Women Fare Better This Season? by Megan Kearns

Luckily, Season 2 will see an influx of new characters, including lots of female roles. Huzzah! The “Red Priestess” Melisandre of Asshai (Carice van Houten), female warrior (!!!!) Brienne of Tarth (Gwendoline Christie), noblewoman Lady Margaery Tyrell (Natalie Dormer), Ygritte (Rose Leslie), the Ironborn captain (double !!!!) Yara Greyjoy (Gemma Whelan) named “Asha” in the novels. Wait, a sorceress, warrior and ship captain?? More women in leadership roles?? Sounds promising!

‘Game of Thrones’: Is Jon Snow Too Feminine for the Masculine World?

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Game of Thrones. | Spoilers ahead.

“There is no gender identity behind the expressions of gender; … identity is performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are said to be its results.” (Butler: 1999, 25). Judith Butler’s concept of gender as being performative and defined by actions rather than a universal identifiable notion is entirely apt when we consider the gender of Game of Thrones’ Jon Snow. Whilst ostensibly male in terms of gender, Jon Snow’s character is arguably definably feminine through his actions, motivations and interactions with both female and male characters.

The majority of critique and discussion on Jon’s character has, thus far, focused upon either his overt masculinity or his progressive feminism. This is not to suggest that Jon’s character is not masculine; certainly his actions in battle signal him to be a hero in the archetypical sense, but I am suggesting that Jon Snow’s masculinity coexists with a feminine expression, and it is this coexistence that leads to the events at the end of season five.

Interactions with men

Jon’s interactions with men clearly demonstrate this sense of coexistence. He is both intensely masculine, respected by the men of The Night’s Watch, and thoroughly feminine in his interactions with both Sam and Olly.

Take for instance, Jon’s first interaction with Sam Tarly. Jon is already respected by the men of the watch, and we witness him intelligently coaching and instructing his fellow men in how to improve their fighting technique. As Sam arrives, his appearance is openly ridiculed by the men as they comment both on his weight and his subsequent perceived weakness. As Sam is beaten and humiliated, Jon rapidly steps in and requests that the actions cease. His interruption draws comment from Ser Alliser Thorne who remarks, “Alright then, Lord Snow, you wish to defend your lady love?” This comment, in which Thorne attempts to highlight a male and female dichotomy between the two is notable. For Thorne, Jon’s defence of Sam marks him as explicitly male with Sam fulfilling the female role, but for me, this defense highlights a feminine and in turn a maternal nature to Jon. His connection with Sam is based on pure emotion at this point: he has no knowledge of his character but has responded to him on a visceral level.

While some may comment that such a defense links to Jon’s sense of nobility and honor (a trope that is regularly linked to masculinity), there is no real honor in stepping in for a man who cannot defend himself. At this point in the narrative Sam is pitiful and Jon’s interception further marks out Sam’s current pathetic nature. Thus, Jon has not acted upon honor, as he would be all too aware of the manner in which this interaction would be interpreted, rather he has acted upon a desire to care and look after others, a quality more stereotypically linked with femininity. After Jon has successfully defended Sam, Thorne orders Jon to “clean the armory as that’s all [he’s] good for,” further reducing him to a typical feminine role of the domestic. Thorne’s disdain for Jon seems to stem from his clear desire to protect and tend to others, as there is no place for such behavour in The Night’s Watch (women are banned from remaining at Castle Black).

Jon places himself in direct conflict with both Thorne and the overtly masculine men of the Watch when he later notes that the men should no longer bully or humiliate Sam. As Jon informs the men of his desire for Sam to be cared for, his motivation is once again linked to a romantic interest as Sam is referred to as Jon’s “girlfriend.” Here, Jon’s embodiment of masculinity and femininity is clearly apparent: his motivation stems from a feminine connection but his manner of dealing with the situation is violent and thereby stereotypically masculine. This intent, combined with such action, clearly marks him as different from the other men. Jon is unique in his approach and, whilst initially respected for it, it is soon apparent that for the other men who simply embody masculinity, Jon Snow cannot remain.

This coexistence of intent and action is again apparent in Jon’s interactions with Olly. Interestingly, this happens once again in a moment in which Jon is acting his most typically masculine and coaching Olly in developing his fighting technique. Notably, Jon’s focus in this interaction is his desire to ensure that Olly is able to protect himself, instructing him on numerous occasions to “keep your shield up.” Olly is not being coached in how to kill, but rather how to defend. Jon’s aim is to ensure the safety of the young boy rather than training him to become an efficient killer.

Interactions with women

Jon Snow’s most formative female relationship is that with Ygritte, the Free Folk (Wildling) woman with whom he falls in love. It is worth nothing that Jon, formally directed to being the masculine counterpart in his relationship with Sam, is here relegated to the feminine role. Ygritte’s superior hunting knowledge and her difficulty in understanding why any girl should ‘swoon’ immediately mark her out as functioning in a conventionally non-feminine manner. Her focus in this interaction is upon violence and possession, remarking to Snow that, “You are mine,” whilst Jon’s focus is once again on seeking to protect the lives of others. Ygritte is unfazed by the prospect of their death and in her possession of her lover, expects him to remain her possession beyond death.

Her constant refrain of, “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” highlights the hierarchy in their relationship. It is useful here to utilize Deborah Tannen’s difference theory, in which she highlights the variances between male and female conversation. Indeed, much of Tannen’s theory, in which she highlights six contrasts between male and female language, are particularly pertinent in the discussion of Jon’s nature. Take for example, her discussion upon the concept of independence (the male characteristic) and intimacy (the female characteristic). Tannen notes that men are more concerned with status and thus focus more on gaining independence. Men risk losing their status if asking for permission and thus reducing their independence, but through his allegiance with the Night’s Watch, Jon has lost all independence, as Ygritte readily points out to him. It is she that is truly free and she recognizes this, whilst Jon has neither sought independence nor recognized that it is lacking.

In a similar manner, we can see that when considering Tannen’s concept of conflict (the male characteristic) and compromise (the female characteristic), Jon once again aligns himself more with the female characteristic. He seeks a compromise with the Free Folk (Wildlings) after their defeat at the hand of Stannis Baratheon, identifying and understanding that conflict and violence is futile. Ygritte, prior to her death, is entirely focused on conflict: she sees no sense in compromise regardless of Jon’s interjections. She questions his lack of conflict when he informs her that he is a Stark, unable to understand or even identify with his approach.

Ultimately, it is this notion of compromise that results in Jon’s apparent death at the end of season 5. The men of the Night’s Watch are unable to reconcile themselves with his approach to dealing with the Free Folk (Wildlings). For the men, who only embody masculinity, a compromise signals weakness. In order to coax Jon into the trap set for him, the men appeal to his emotional, and thereby feminine side, by attempting to engage him emotionally (informing him that news of his uncle has arrived). Is this to suggest then that a character who readily embodies both masculinity and femininity cannot exist in this patriarchal world? Sam, another character who arguably exhibits both genders in his actions, perhaps recognizing the precarious nature of such an existence, has physically removed himself from Castle Black, and in doing so has, thus far, survived. For Jon Snow, whose emotions ever connect him to Castle Black, there could be no such escape.

References:

Butler, J. (1999). Gender trouble. New York: Routledge.

The Gender Trap and Women Directors

But, when was the last time ANYONE sat down to write a story, or direct a project and asked themselves — Is this story masculine or feminine? Exactly none, I suspect. … Storytellers tell stories, audiences engage, the formula is quite simple. But, it only works one way — male filmmakers are able to make any film they want without biased-loaded gender questions, whereas women filmmakers always face more scrutiny and criticism.

This guest post written by Jenna Ricker appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors.

“Man is defined as a human being and a woman as a female — whenever she behaves as a human being she is said to imitate the male.” – Simone de Beauvoir

There I was, waiting to be introduced at my first film festival for my first feature film. My stomach was all butterflies. Not sweet lilting flappers, but juiced up buggers pinging around at breakneck speed, swirling with worry about whether the audience would like my movie, or walk out, or worse… what if someone had smuggled in a tomato?

As I stood there trying to play it cool, the festival programmer began talking about my film — a coming of age drama about a young boy who, while searching for his absentee mother, re-connects with his older half-brother— in a way I hadn’t anticipated. While I know he meant to be flattering, I was struck by how many times I heard a variation of this phrase: How did she write and direct this masculine story so well as a woman?

The butterflies, struck dumb by confusion, stopped swirling. I didn’t know I’d written a masculine story. I’d heard of chick-flicks, which I imagined to be movies that chickens watched in the comfort of their coops, but was ‘masculine’ a legit genre? I rattled the usual suspects off in my head — comedy, drama, thriller, horror, masculine, feminine — hold up, what?

Cut to a few years later. I’ve got the same butterflies as I wait to be introduced at a different festival for the premiere of my second feature film — this one a noir-inspired mystery about a conspiracy to control a revolutionary design by inventor, Nikola Tesla. The festival programmer passionately described the film, talked beautifully about our wonderful cast and then with a nod in my direction said — When you meet this director you won’t believe she made such a dark, masculine film. My butterflies gave me a swift kick in the gut.

Here’s the thing — all of the festival programmers who described my films as ‘masculine’ genuinely liked and celebrated my work. They were wonderfully gracious, and no doubt intended to be complimentary, and I’m eternally grateful that they saw something they appreciated and wanted to include in their festivals. But, it got me to thinking.

What makes a story masculine or feminine?

I did some research, reading articles and excerpts that addressed gender identity, feminist literature, sexuality, but I came up short on finding research on assigning gender to stories. What I did discover is that over 80 languages have nouns, verbs and adjectives that are deemed masculine or feminine. Are you suddenly having flashbacks to freshman year Spanish?

In our current political climate it might be easy to forget that words have meanings, however, in these languages gender is inextricably tied to the cultural interpretation. As Mark Twain noted in A Tramp Abroad, “In German, a young lady has no sex, while a turnip has… A tree is male, its buds are female, its leaves are neuter; horses are sexless, dogs are male, cats are female… tomcats included.” While English doesn’t officially have ‘gender-words’, it does have gender-connotations. Take pronouns, for example. I say doctor, you say? He. I say nurse, you say? She. (If you didn’t, congratulations, you’re one in a million.) Language is powerful, like stories, and it would appear our socialization subconsciously compels us to assign gender to both. What’s that about?

There are ‘female-driven’ stories, like Silkwood, and there are ‘male-driven’ stories, like Tootsie; stories driven by the main characters’ gender AND their storyline, which is distinct from ascribing a gender to a story. What the festival programmers didn’t realize, because it’s something that runs deep inside us all, was that their need to label the story by gender was tied wholly to the fact that a woman had directed it. Do you think anyone said to Sydney Pollack, “How did you direct such a feminine film?” when The Way We Were hit theaters. Was James L. Brooks inundated with questions like, “How did you understand such feminine characters?” when he helmed Terms of Endearment? Yeah, I doubt it, too.

But, when was the last time ANYONE sat down to write a story, or direct a project and asked themselves — Is this story masculine or feminine? Exactly none, I suspect. Why is every-day filmmaking ‘for the boys’ cast through an entirely different lens when it comes to the women? Kathryn Bigelow’s Hurt Locker was powerfully executed, and I guarantee the phrase, “Can you believe a woman directed it?” was used by many while exiting the theaters. But did those same folks walk out of The Hours wondering how Stephen Daldry managed to pull it off? Storytellers tell stories, audiences engage, the formula is quite simple. But, it only works one way — male filmmakers are able to make any film they want without biased-loaded gender questions, whereas women filmmakers always face more scrutiny and criticism.

A couple of yeas ago I was on a ‘Women in the Director’s Chair’ panel with these inspiring women filmmakers and we were discussing this need to place gender on story solely when the storyteller was female. Debra Granik (Winter’s Bone, Stray Dog) shared that it had been suggested to her that maybe the way to combat this was to use a male nom-de-plume, or try submitting a script with just one’s initials to see if that changed the reaction or greased the wheels. But, as we all surmised, then what? You’re sitting across from a producer who thought you were a man, and now you’re having an awkward ‘gotcha moment’? And, besides, who wants to pretend to be someone else when it’s already hard enough being yourself in this industry.

This is not just a nuisance but a symptom of a much larger problem: Women writers and directors are already hindered by gender labels miles from the finish line. Other marginalized writers and directors are impeded as much, if not more, when it comes to storytelling. As difficult as it is for all women filmmakers, it’s even more difficult for women of color, LBTQ women and women with disabilities. And, while making a movie is incredibly hard for anybody — it takes ridiculous amounts of stamina and unwavering focus, no matter your gender — when a woman wants to tell a story, her obstacle course is often fraught with more walls to scale, barbed-wire to beat, and fire pits to leap over.

And one of the biggest obstacles, in my opinion, is this need to label a woman’s storytelling as either masculine or feminine. This is yet another Catch-22 for a woman director. You want to tell a story about a World War II battlefield? The gatekeepers will decide that’s probably better told by a man. You want to tell a story about a World War II nursing station? Okay, but the gatekeepers will tell you that no one is going to watch it because it’s about women. This denotes that the first story is masculine and the second feminine, regardless of the actual subject matter. And so it goes…

Ironically, what is more likely to happen is a male director being celebrated for telling female-driven fare. You know, those big ‘chick flicks’ of the that last few years — Bridesmaids, Sisters, Trainwreck, Crazy, Stupid, Love, and the coming Ghostbusters reboot — all directed by men. This means three things, as far as I can guess: 1.That women in leading roles means chicken-coop watching is going to be huge, 2. These films made heaps of money at the box-office, but there is no trickle-up-effect from female-driven stories to female-helmed stories, and 3. If you’re subscribing to this notion that stories are either female or male, then why aren’t women directing these films? I’m not subscribing to this notion, nor taking the Paul Feig’s or Judd Apatow’s to task. I love that they’re casting women in numbers, and clearly making movies that excite them, and further, I don’t blame them for the asinine term ‘chick-flick’ either, but if I ever meet the coiner of that phrase in a dark alley…

Look, this is not ground-breaking territory I’m covering, just another voice in the chorus of frustration at our industries’ blatant gender parities. So what do we do about it? Well, if it were that simple we would’ve leveled the playing field and gotten on with storytelling already. But, getting on with storytelling is helping. As Melissa Silverstein wrote in an IndieWire article “Embracing the Female Gaze“:

“There are women all across this industry taking hammers each and every day to bang away at the glass ceiling that creates this deep inequality in storytelling. Women are picking up hammers by making their own films in any way they can by creating and participating in female film groups and helping each other, as well as using social media to spread the word about the desire for change.”

To push the needle, women have to keep finding a way outside the system to make movies that challenge the status quo. Hiring women in key roles on crews changes the landscape of a production, and starts to chip away at the ‘boys club’ until a woman’s credits start to pile up next to her male counterparts and the excuse of ‘no experience’ becomes a non-starter. More media outlets that create more opportunities for work to be seen is another potential game changer. What other ways can we start to erode at the gender story trap? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Jenna Ricker is a writer/director based in New York City. She received the Mira Nair Award for Rising Female Filmmaker for her first film, Ben’s Plan. Her second feature film The American Side premieres in theaters April 22nd.

First image photo credit: Frank Barrera; second image photo credit: Ginny Stewart.

#OscarsSoWhite: The Fight for Representation at the Academy Awards

But beyond academy membership, changes need to be implemented on every level, from writing to directing to acting. Speaking in a roundtable on Oscar Diversity, Lara Brown notes that in order to diversify the entertainment industry, women ought be present in a variety of roles. Brown, who directs the Political Management Program at George Washington University believes that women ought to be present in every aspect of the filmmaking process.

This guest post is written by Danika Kimball.

In recent years, moviegoers, critics, and activists have been increasingly outspoken about Hollywood’s apparent diversity problem. Most recently, the battle over identity and inclusion came to a head with the January unveiling of Oscar nominees, where for the second year in a row, all 20 of the acting nominees were revealed to be white — a point which was not glossed over at the 88th Academy Awards.

During last year’s academy awards, April Reign, an attorney who manages BroadwayBlack.com, began using the hashtag #OscarsSoWhite in an attempt to express her frustration at the state of diversity in Hollywood. The hashtag has since gone viral and catalyzed a vital conversation. Reign explained to the Los Angeles Times:

“It happened because I was disappointed once again in the lack of diversity and inclusion with respect to the nominees. … And we see, despite all of the talk since last year, nothing has changed and it looks even worse this year.”

The lack of diversity and inclusion at this year’s academy awards was not glossed over, as Chris Rock opened the program with an biting monologue highlighting the academy’s representation issues — renaming the Oscars the “White People’s Choice Awards.”

“If they nominated hosts, I wouldn’t even get this job,” he added later, “Y’all would be watching Neil Patrick Harris right now.”

The Academy Awards are just the most recent of many instances that show if you’re looking for an accurate depiction of ethnic and gender diversity in the American workforce, Hollywood is the last place you should be looking.

Recent studies by USC Annenberg’s Media, Diversity, & Social Change Initiative recently released a brand new study, which offers an unflattering overview revealing the true extent of the ways in which Hollywood is failing diversity practices. Dr. Stacy Smith, who led the team responsible for these findings, said in a recent interview, “The prequel to OscarsSoWhite is HollywoodSoWhite. … We don’t have a diversity problem. We have an inclusion crisis.”

Their report evaluated every speaking character across 414 films, television, and digital stories released in 2014-2015, covering 11,000 speaking characters who were then analyzed on the basis of gender, racial/ethnic representation, and LGBT status. Researchers also analyzed 10,000 directors, writers, and show creators on the basis of gender and race, and 1,500 executives at different media companies.

Their analysis? “The film industry still functions as a straight, white, boy’s club.”

Other studies performed this year have had similar findings. As reported by NPR, a 2015 UCLA study of Diversity in Hollywood confirms the gender and racial imbalances in film and television, behind the scenes and in front of the camera, which compares minority representation to their proportion of the population.

Darnell Hunt, who co-authored the UCLA study, notes that at every level in Hollywood, women and people of color are underrepresented, although people of color have made slight gains in employment arenas since the last time the study was performed.

Despite the fact that ethnic minorities “make up nearly 40 percent of the U.S. population,” they are represented in leading Hollywood roles a mere 17 percent of the time. And as far as Hollywood executives are concerned, the UCLA study notes that “the corps of CEOS and/or chairs running the 18 studios examined was 94 percent white and 100 percent male.” The study also notes that behind the scenes, directing and writing positions still remain largely white and largely male.

Ana-Christina Ramón, who co-authored the findings notes that the findings are not surprising by any means, but the statistics carry an important message to studios about the profitability of diversity. She tells NPR:

“We continue to see that diversity sells. … And that’s a big point that needs to be then relayed to the studios and the networks.”

She’s not wrong, as her studies prove, films with diverse casts enjoy huge profit margins in the box office, the same for which can be said with television. But it seems as though, despite these statistics, gatekeepers in the entertainment industry (who are white men by and large) believe that the best way to keep their jobs is to surround themselves with people who look like them.

The study also notes that diversity has won out in television, as shows like How To Get Away With Murder, Grey’s Anatomy, Empire, Fresh Off the Boat, and Master of None have proven to draw in high amounts of viewers. The reason? Author Darnell Hunt argues that the answer to that question lies in the general amount of risk associated with each genre.

Television shows are produced in relatively high numbers each year, and budgets operate on a fairly small scale, but for studios produce relatively few films each year and budgets for those can cost upwards of hundreds of millions of dollars — making it imperative to higher ups that these films are successful.

Social media has also changed the landscape of television, as viewers now have social capital to effect change. Ramón tells NPR, “Every viewer has really the power to influence the network directly, especially through Twitter.” To show the power of social media in television, she sites the ABC show Scandal, where viewer opinion changed the arc for a show which was on it’s way to being canceled.

Scandal’s success has prompted even more diverse programming to appear on television, with another Shondaland series How to Get Away With Murder making its television debut just two years later. Television executives are beginning to recognize that shows with a Black female lead are profitable.

For television and film alike, the statistics are sobering, and change ought to be enacted quickly in order to bridge the gross lack of diversity present in all forms of entertainment media. But it looks as though change is in the making. Following this due criticism, it appears as though the academy is increasing measures to diversify their membership. Earlier this year, the academy’s board of governors unanimously voted to double the number of women and people of color in its roster by 2020.

“I think the way [diversity increases] is to have more women in those behind-the scenes in writing, directing, and studio executive roles, because you have to make women more integral to the story, not just the side arm candy to the man’s story.”

In February, the New York Times published, “What It’s Really Like to Work in Hollywood (*If You’re Not A Straight White Man),” which featured interviews with 27 women, people of color, and LGBTQ people in the entertainment industry, highlighting their “personal experiences of not being seen, heard, or accepted.”

Actress, director, and producer Eva Longoria shared:

“I didn’t speak Spanish [growing up]. I’m ninth generation. I mean, I’m as American as apple pie. I’m very proud of my heritage. But I remember moving to L.A. and auditioning and not being Latin enough for certain roles. Some white male casting director was dictating what it meant to be Latin. He decided I needed an accent. He decided I should [have] darker-colored skin. The gatekeepers are not usually people of color, so they don’t understand you should be looking for way more colors of the rainbow within that one ethnicity.”

Wendell Pierce added his experience while in the casting office of a major studio:

“The head of casting said, ‘I couldn’t put you in a Shakespeare movie, because they didn’t have black people then.’ He literally said that. I told that casting director: ‘You ever heard of Othello? Shakespeare couldn’t just make up black people. He saw them.’”

In a similar fashion, Emmy winner Viola Davis mentioned the importance of creating unique roles for women and people of color, as expressed in her acceptance speech earlier this year:

“The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity. … I always say that Meryl Streep would not be Meryl Streep without Sophie’s Choice, without Kramer vs. Kramer, without Devil Wears Prada. You can’t be Meryl Streep if you’re the third girl from the left in the narrative with two scenes.”

Danika Kimball is a musician from the Northwest who sometimes takes a 30-minute break from feminism to enjoy a TV show. You can follow her on twitter @sadwhitegrrl or on Instagram @drunkfeminist.

Ladies and Gentlemen, ‘Master of None’ Is the Series We’ve All Been Waiting For

You don’t have to look further than the comments section on any website to see that people with more power routinely try to decide what people with less power have the right to complain about. It’s something that happens in every discussion about inequality, but it’s so rare for that to be the topic itself that I was actually shocked when it was in “Ladies and Gentlemen.”

Written by Katherine Murray.

If you haven’t had time to catch up on Aziz Ansari’s Netflix series yet, prepare yourself to be delighted.

Ever since it dropped in November, Master of None — created by Ansari and Alan Yang — has racked up critical praise. The comedy follows Ansari’s character, Dev, as he navigates his dating life and fledgling acting career in New York City. But what sets it apart is the diversity of its characters, and the insight it offers into day-to-day microaggressions related to race and gender. Master of None offers us a point of view that’s hard to find on television, and does it in a smart, entertaining way.

One of the episodes that has attracted the most attention is “Parents,” which focuses on first-generation Americans trying to navigate relationships with their immigrant parents. Ansari cast his real-life mother and father in the episode, and the story struck a powerful chord with viewers who had never before seen their own experiences as children of immigrants reflected in popular entertainment. Another episode, “Indians on TV,” highlights racist stereotypes and casting in mainstream media, calling out real-life examples, both obvious and subtle.

Master of None has received less attention for the way it approaches gender, but the first season shines on that front, too. Dev’s group of friends includes funny, smart people from many different backgrounds, including a straight white man and a Black lesbian woman who have roughly equal importance in the story. His relationship with his one-night stand turned girlfriend, Rachel, is respectful and emotionally mature – they act like equals at all times, and like each other because they have the same sense of humor, interests, and values. In the episode “Hot Ticket,” Dev agonizes over setting up a date with a really attractive waitress, only to discover that he hates her personality. It’s an idea that could have gone wrong, but the character and her awful personality idiosyncrasies are so specific that it doesn’t come off as a statement that beautiful women are X, Y or Z, so much as a statement that it’s not possible to know whether someone is a desirable date until you’ve spent time talking to them.

The most feminist episode of the first season, though, is “Ladies and Gentlemen,” in which Dev is surprised to learn that his girlfriend and female friends are constantly the targets of aggressive behavior from men. Like “Indians on TV,” “Ladies and Gentlemen” starts by highlighting broad, obvious forms of aggression, before drawing attention to subtler types of discrimination that even well-meaning people engage in.

“Ladies and Gentlemen” opens with a scene that cuts back and forth between Dev and one of his female co-stars leaving a cast party at night. Dev and his male friend, Arnold, share a pleasant conversation and cut through the park to save time. Dev’s co-star looks like she’s in a horror movie and ends up getting followed to her house by some asshole who tried to buy her a drink earlier and got mad when she turned him down. He hammers on her door demanding to know why nice guys like him never have a chance.

After Dev finds out about what happened, he hears similar stories from all the other women in his life. The stories are based on the real-life experiences of female staff writers, and they’re completely familiar to any woman watching the show, right down to the detail where you can’t post a picture of eggs on your Instagram without some strange guy showing up to harass you.

Armed with this new information, Dev and his female friend, Denise, make a citizen’s arrest when they catch a man jerking off on the subway. Dev becomes a hero to all the women at the bar, who start buying him drinks and telling him about the awful things that guys have done to them. Later on, while he’s still basking in the glow of being an upstanding feminist, one of Dev’s male coworkers stops by the table and introduces himself to all the men, while ignoring the women completely. Rachel and Denise point out the sexism of the situation and Dev dismissively tells them that they are being too sensitive and making a big deal out of nothing. He’s then confused about why Rachel is upset with him.

What follows is an amazing scene – also based on real-life experiences – where Rachel and Dev walk home together and she explains in an articulate but believable way, why it’s hurtful and offensive for him to tell her that her own assessment of a thing that just happened to her is wrong. It’s like the final scene in the Louie episode “So Did the Fat Lady,” except without being so problematic. In the end, Dev concedes that Rachel knows more about what Rachel just experienced than he does, and says he will try harder to listen, from now on.

It’s one of the single greatest moments I’ve seen on a TV show – and maybe the only one to directly address this exact, frustrating, aggravating, hard-to-articulate issue head-on. You don’t have to look further than the comments section on any website to see that people with more power routinely try to decide what people with less power have the right to complain about. That very act – that presumptuous attempt to unilaterally define the boundaries of what is and isn’t up for discussion; what we can and can’t feel offended by; what we can and can’t disagree about – that very act is, itself, an attempt to protect and reinforce the power structures we were trying to complain about in the first place. It’s something that happens in every discussion about inequality, but it’s so rare for that to be the topic itself that I was actually shocked when it was in “Ladies and Gentlemen.”

Non-traditional networks like Netflix and Amazon have opened new frontiers in terms of what a TV show can be and whose stories are profitable enough to be worth telling. Master of None is an example of the very best these new frontiers have to offer – a funny, insightful, well-produced series that broadens the range of experiences depicted on television and adds something new to the cultural discussion.

The good news is that Master of None was just officially renewed for second season, expected to show up in 2017.

Staff writer Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies, TV and video games on her blog.