Hate to Love Her: The Lasting Allure of Blair Waldorf

In an interview with the ‘New York Times,’ Gillian Flynn says, “The likability thing, especially in Hollywood, is a constant conversation, and they’re really underrating their audience when they have that conversation. What I read and what I go to the movies for is not to find a best friend, not to find inspirations…It’s to be involved with characters that are maybe incredibly different from me, that may be incredibly bad but that feel authentic.”


This guest post by Vanessa Willoughby appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


Blair Waldorf, the spoiled, plotting socialite of the CW’s Gossip Girl, is not your typical high school student. This Upper East Side Queen Bee is not a relatable character, nor as literary critics would say, a reliable narrator. Competitive by nature, Blair moves through New York City’s elite social world with the shrewd cunning of a cutthroat and cynical business titan. Despite her poised exterior, Blair is initially presented as the eternal underdog to her best frenemy, the free-spirited Serena van der Woodsen.

Yet during its six-season run, fans of the show rooted for Blair as though she were Scarlett O’Hara—a stubborn anti-heroine with grandiose dreams that often clashed with self-destructive desires. In order to catapult Blair from an emotionally flat, cardboard-cutout Mean Girl into a multi-faceted character, she is someone whose deep insecurities and anxieties are nearly equal to her undeniable beauty and privilege. Unlike Serena, who seems to always benefit from some higher source of convenient luck, Blair struggles with her looks, most notably her body image.

Cecily von Ziegesar, author of the series used for the basis of the show, says in a profile with New York Magazine, “I always resented books that tried to teach a lesson, where the characters are too good: They don’t swear, they tell their mothers everything…I mean, of course I want to be the responsible mother who says, ‘Oh, there are terrible repercussions if you have sex, do drugs, and have an eating disorder!’ But the truth is, my friends and I dabbled in all of those things. And we all went to good colleges and grew up fine. And that’s the honest thing to say.” Gossip Girl may exude the flamboyance of a melodramatic soap opera but the character of Blair Waldorf still manages to embody the familiar woes and hangups of a recognizable teenage girl.

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Like many teenage girls who feel that they are never enough as they are, Blair constantly searches for a version of her best self that always eludes her grasp. It’s fitting that Blair’s role models are Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly. These iconic actresses, with their regal beauty, trademark style aesthetics, and air of worldly sophistication, reflect Blair’s need to merge her perception of femininity with a quiet yet commanding power. Does she pull this off? Her friendship with Serena, which can easily swing from loving to toxic, exposes her vulnerabilities. Her perfectionism merely functions as a coping mechanism. In season one, episode nine, “Blair Waldorf Must Pie!,” viewers learn that Blair is bulimic. After facing a dysfunctional and stressful Thanksgiving, she resorts to binge-eating and then making herself throw up. She may not be able to control every aspect of her life as though she were a Hollywood director, but she can control her relationship to food. As the seasons progress, Blair’s bulimia is not treated as her defining characteristic or the foundation of her identity.

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When discussing the role of the unlikable female protagonist in an essay for Buzzfeed, Bad Feminist author Roxane Gay notes, “These novels [Gone Girl, Dare Me] depict women who are clearly not participating in their narratives to make friends and whose characters are the better for it. Freed from the constraints of likability, they are able to exist on and beyond the page as fully realized, interesting, and realistic characters.”

In the case of Blair Waldorf, her narrative begins with a power struggle between herself and Serena, her childhood partner in crime. When Serena returns home to Manhattan after attending boarding school in Connecticut, Blair’s natural instinct is to panic. Her relationship with Serena is bound by equal parts jealousy and mafia-level loyalty. Serena’s return means that Blair will be stripped of her title as Constance Billard’s Queen Bee. Blair learns that Serena slept with her boyfriend, Nate Archibald, right before Serena shipped out of Grand Central Station. She turns against Serena and commands her newly-appointed court to do the same. Blair is not depicted as the Girl Next Door; in fact, it’s a label that Blair would find a bit insulting due to its implications of commonality. If anything, Serena, with her heart of gold and It Girl charm, is the one who is pushed as likable. Blair is a character that is free from the constraints of likability, but her power-hungry and slightly paranoid motivations, however selfish, do not make her lifeless or cartoonish. Blair’s rocky relationship with Serena prevents her from serving as the resident villain. On the contrary, it emphasizes her weaknesses.

The social pecking order of Gossip Girl revolves around class, rather than outright wealth. Echoing the conflicts of an Edith Wharton novel, the female protagonists exist in a familiar yet distorted version of New York. Blair’s vulnerabilities include her see-sawing feelings toward Serena and her tendency to make decisions shaped by the promise of social-climbing or revenge. Ultimately this pushes her into the arms of Chuck Bass, Nate’s best friend. For some viewers, Chuck and Blair’s courtship of mindgames and manipulation were reason enough to call the pairing and Blair unlikable, to say the least. But unlikable doesn’t have to constitute unwatchable or monstrous.

In an interview with the New York Times, Gillian Flynn says, “The likability thing, especially in Hollywood, is a constant conversation, and they’re really underrating their audience when they have that conversation. What I read and what I go to the movies for is not to find a best friend, not to find inspirations…It’s to be involved with characters that are maybe incredibly different from me, that may be incredibly bad but that feel authentic.”

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Despite the extremes of Chuck and Blair’s battle tactics, which include marrying a Prince (Blair) and a deep-seated aversion to commitment (Chuck), their relationship has the same Will they or won’t they? curiosity in the same vein as Heathcliff and Cathy in Wuthering Heights or Carrie and Big in Sex and the City. Blair and Chuck breakup only to reunite, both infused with a sense of fragile pride that is also a vice. Their antics aren’t aspirational. At one point, Chuck “sells” Blair in order to keep his father’s hotel empire. In a conversation with the New Yorker, Margaret Atwood, in response to the question of the likable female character says, “This does still come up. It is indeed a ridiculous question. The qualities we appreciate in a character are not the same as those we would look for in a college roommate.”

None of the characters are exactly the type you’d want for a college roommate. Even Dan Humphrey, the Brooklyn “Outsider,” is not as morally pure as he’d like to believe. He’s just as snobby and self-righteous as Blair, thus making it a surprising yet believable turn of events when they later get together in season four. Regardless, it’s Blair, with her determination, her ability to swiftly flip the switch from charming to threatening, who makes a much more interesting and compelling character than Golden Girl Serena. Edan Lepucki writes for The Millions, “But what if a character isn’t Unlikeable, but unlikeable? What if you just didn’t like him or her? That’s a valid personal response, and certainly a good a reason as any to stop reading. But it’s such a personal response that it’s irrelevant to the critical gaze.” We don’t have to like Blair in order to root for the success of her schemes or even feel sympathy for her self-induced conflicts.

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What made Gossip Girl and Blair Waldorf interesting was not the character’s attempts to achieve role model status. The fact that fans of the show that identified with Blair may have even misinterpreted the message or lack thereof. Emily Nussbaum when writing about The Mindy Project observes, “Female viewers, especially, have been trained to expect certain payoffs from romantic comedies, vicarious in nature: the meet-cute, the soul mate, and, in nearly every case, a ‘Me, too!’ identification. Without ‘Me, too!,’ some folks want a refund.” Blair, in all of her messy contradictions and complexities, would lose what makes her fascinating if she were written to be likable.

 


Vanessa Willoughby is a writer and editor. Her work has appeared on The Toast, The Hairpin, Thought Catalog, and other print and online publications. Find her @book_nerd212.

 

 

‘Gone Girl’: How to Create the Perfect Female Villain

Seeing a female character like Dunne on screen is fantastic–a word she would deem “a little flippant,” but there has yet to be a female villain quite like her. Fincher draws us into this world, Dunne’s world, where everything is this perfect shade of monochrome with tungsten lighting, where the camera moves in slow and methodical push-ins and pull-outs just as calculating as Dunne is, where things change with such swiftness–a kiss to a tongue swab, just like real life. And as we return to real life, we have to wonder: What will Amy Elliott Dunne do next?

This is a guest post by Alize Emme

SPOILER ALERT.

Kudos to the 20th Century Fox exec who decided to market Gone Girl (2014) as a great date movie. This is not a date movie. This is a horror story about the sensationalized pitfalls of a doomed marriage.

As good horror stories go, this one has the perfect villain: Amy Elliott Dunne.

Calculating. Manipulative. Patient. Sinister. Genius. Female.

Dunne (Rosamund Pike) is perhaps one of the greatest female fictional villains portrayed on screen, with bonus points for doing something her male counterparts rarely ever achieve: getting away with it. Dunne, with the help of a highly colored narrative penned by Gillian Flynn, manipulates a vibrant cast of stereotypes as she weaves the perfect crime web and literally gets away with murder.

After feeling like her husband, Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck), has taken her “pride, dignity, hope, and money,” Dunne sets out with fierce discipline and a detective’s eye for detail to frame her unsuspecting husband for her own murder. She befriends “a local idiot,” tells tall tales about fear and the threat of violence, authors a journal’s worth of history–some true, some false, simulates a pregnancy, lights “a fire in July,” and sets the perfect crime scene. She transforms herself into someone “people will truly mourn.”

The premise of Gone Girl works because it plays off our preconceived notions about loss and tragedy. The Pretty Murdered Wife. We as an audience know this story: she’s missing, feared dead, might be pregnant. The narrative needs no back-story, but we do get a glimpse.

Nick Dunne. He is done. Gone. Finished. We know this about Nick the moment we meet him just by his name as he’s standing in the middle of the street next to garbage bins. He is something to be taken out and disposed of with the trash; he is never getting his life back, and Flynn wants us to be aware. The Nick Dunne we are introduced to is a schlubby, beer drinking, ice cream eating, 5 o’clock shadow kind of guy with a dissatisfied marriage and a concubine on the side.

The Smug Accused Husband
The Smug Accused Husband

 

When Dunne goes missing and morphs into the Pretty Murdered Wife stereotype, Nick Dunne’s general disposition puts him right into the Smug Accused Husband category. He’s too charming; he’s too arrogant; he’s too suspicious. He’s a man with secrets. “He’s being a good guy, so everyone can see him being a good guy,” Officer Gilpin (Patrick Fugit) observes. He’s a man whose marriage has taught him how to fake it, who happens to be surrounded by women. There’s lead detective Rhonda Boney (Kim Dickens) who gives him a fair run. A fictionalized Nancy Grace clone, Ellen Abbott, (Missi Pyle) who pulls him apart every night on her nationally syndicated television show, and his twin sister Margo (Carrie Coon) who’s been with him since before they “were even born” and offers a stable voice of reason.

“I am so sick of being picked apart by women,” Nick Dunne says. And he’s right, that’s exactly what’s happening now that he’s been labeled the Smug Accused Husband. This stereotype exists because there are men who do kill their pregnant wives and then go on TV and lie about it, and society remembers them. The case of Laci Peterson was one of the first things that came to my mind. And Affleck is clear to note that Scott Peterson was one of the models for his character. Even the “Missing” photo of Dunne is reminiscent of Laci’s with the bright smile, dangling earrings, and glossy lipstick. Gone Girl is a story that already lives on the edge of our thoughts.

As a couple, Nick and Amy have been pretending from the start. They have a perfect meet-cute, perfect dates, perfect celebratory rituals; they even buy the same sheets. He plays “hot, doting husband,” to her “sweet, loving spouse.” None of it is real; “I forged the man of my dreams,” Dunne says. And in doing so, she herself became the Cool Girl. Another stereotype of how women manipulate themselves to land a man.

Eating cold pizza, drinking beer, remaining “a size 2.” Dunne tailored herself to fit Nick’s taste. But “Nick got lazy.” Not holding up his end of the bargain was never the deal. When she sees that Nick’s sweet romantic gestures were not improvisations made up for her, but rather a well-rehearsed ruse easily tailored to the girl in front of him, Dunne makes a decision. She realizes her husband is no longer the man she married and decides to teach him a lesson he will never forget. “No fucking way,” she says, “He doesn’t get to win. Grown-ups suffer consequences.” She takes charge. She doesn’t let herself be walked on by this man. “Why should I die?” She asks, “I’m not the asshole.”

It’s an easy, cop-out that barely scratches the surface of accurate to diagnose Dunne as a psychopath. To say she’s an overly emotional, crazy woman who can’t handle daily life and descends into a PMS-filled rage, is falling pry to gender stereotypes. Dunne exhibits a perfectly cool demeanor, her emotions are consistently even, she is meticulous and complex. The layers of this character are masterful; she is the opposite of what every gender stereotype says women should be like. She is simply a great villain. “Show me that Darling Nicky smile,” Dunne coos like the Wicked Witch of the West as she stares at a video of her husband on a computer. She’s fascinated by her own work.

Amy Elliott Dunne, the perfect villain
Amy Elliott Dunne, the perfect villain

 

Pike’s performance is mesmerizing; she delivers Dunne’s words in this breathless manner like she’s seductively blowing out a candle. Pike makes us believe from the very beginning that Dunne is both sane and capable of deception. But seeing a female character portrayed so strongly on screen earns Dunne the unfortunate label of “controlling bitch.”

If Dunne were a man, none of these character and sanity accusations would hold true. Male characters that go on rampant murder sprees in movies are never labeled as psychopaths, when clearly they display the same behavior. Dunne is not a psychopath. Crazy people cannot mastermind murders and crimes and not get caught. Even her past acts of “insanity” should be taken with a grain of salt. The ex-boyfriend who calls Dunne a “mind fucker of the first degree,” still keeps a picture of her in his wallet. This woman has allegedly ruined his life, yet he’s still holding her image so close? This calls his authenticity into question while giving Dunne credibility.

Dunne is fiercely intelligent. She has plotted the perfect crime. And while she doesn’t succeed with her original plan, she still sets her husband up for decades of suffering with her pregnancy. For all the betrayed wives out there, Dunne is a hero with the perfect revenge. Her crime is personal, not random, which gets her sanity questioned. Flynn doesn’t touch the subject of Dunne’s mental state. She leaves that up to the audience. David Fincher also helms this story in a nonjudgmental way. He is respectful of Dunne and all the female characters. Dunne is never put on display as a woman, though several male characters make mention of her impressive physical attributes. The supporting female characters, which are all various stereotypes, are never blasted for it; they’re handled with care.

Detective Boney, for example, is the coffee drinking, slick talking lead on Dunne’s missing persons case. She’s an interesting foil to the other female characters that assume Nick Dunne is guilty from the start. Boney gives him the benefit of the doubt, refusing to arrest him because some “blonde dunce” on TV says so. Instead it’s her male partner, Officer Gilpin, who immediately makes up his mind when finding blood splatter in The Dunne’s kitchen that he is guilty.

Through Boney, we are offered the idea that not all women jump to conclusions and hate men. But as the story progresses, we discover that Boney didn’t properly handle her case. “We stained the rug,” she says “with a national spotlight” on her. Had Nick Dunne been left in Boney’s “deeply incompetent hands,” he would be on death row, Dunne conveniently points out. Therefore, Boney’s word is useless in bringing Dunne to justice. Men botch investigations all the time, but for Boney to do so, it’s suggesting a woman can’t properly handle the responsibly of performing a traditionally male job.

Noelle Hawthorne (Casey Wilson) is the wonderfully entertaining suburban mom down the street with triplets and another baby on the way. We know this woman. Everyone has that one inquisitive neighbor that if something were to happen, she would be the first one knocking on the squad car window trying to help the cops. There’s a sense of comedy to this hyperbolic character and her triple-decker stroller, but she is never mocked. We take her seriously. It’s a real feat.

Nick Dunne’s twin, Margo, is a cool girl who’s not the Cool Girl. She drinks bourbon with her brother at ten in the morning, she covers his back with Dunne’s mother, she knows the truth but that doesn’t change her opinion of him. She always speaks the truth with her perfectly snarky comments. “You look like hammered shit,” she tells Nick. He likes her. We like her. She is perhaps the one female character that deviates from a hardened stereotype and could exist in the real world.

Somewhat of a mysterious supporting character, Greta (Lola Kirke) acts as a catalyst for Dunne. She’s complex and calculating just like Dunne; she sees an opportunity, and she seizes it. “Did he put you up to this?” Dunne asks as Greta and her male accomplice rob her blind, “I put him up to it,” she replies. She’s a survivalist and essentially forces Dunne to abort her plan and switch to survival mode herself. Yes, Dunne then murders a man and fakes a sexual assault, but in the world of a villain, she’s just adapting to survive. And as someone who is “skilled in the art of vengeance,” Dunne doesn’t just survive; she thrives.

Dunne, as Nick asks: What are you thinking?
Dunne, as Nick asks: What are you thinking?

 

Seeing a female character like Dunne on screen is fantastic–a word she would deem “a little flippant,” but there has yet to be a female villain quite like her. Fincher draws us into this world, Dunne’s world, where everything is this perfect shade of monochrome with tungsten lighting, where the camera moves in slow and methodical push-ins and pull-outs just as calculating as Dunne is, where things change with such swiftness–a kiss to a tongue swab, just like real life. And as we return to real life, we have to wonder: What will Amy Elliott Dunne do next? We’re left with the image of her head, just where we started, much like a few scenes earlier; we are left with Nick Dunne standing before trash cans, just like we started. So much has happened, but what do we really know? And more important, what will we learn next?

 


Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.

‘Gone Girl’: Scathing Gender Commentary While Reinforcing Rape and Domestic Violence Myths

I wish I could say that ‘Gone Girl’ is a subversive feminist film exposing myriad gender biases and generating a much-needed dialogue on rape and domestic violence. Yet it reinforces dangerous myths rather than shattering them.

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Written by Megan Kearns. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger Warning: Discussion of rape and intimate partner violence]


Is Gone Girl a misandry fest, a subversive feminist masterpiece, or a misogynistic mess? All of the above?

I loved Gone Girl. It intrigued me with its labyrinthine plot, complex characters and noir motif. It simultaneously enthralled and enraged me. There is so much to unpack regarding gender. While a whodunit mystery revolving around the disappearance of Amy Dunne (Rosamund Pike), and whether or not her husband Nick (Ben Affleck) is the culprit, the crux of the film is the dissolution and destructive unraveling of a marriage. It begs the question: Do you ever really know the person you marry?

Deftly written by Gillian Flynn (who wrote the novel as well) and expertly directed by David Fincher, it’s an uncomfortable film that boldly examines the underbelly of love and marriage and how the media shapes perception. Told from the perspectives of both Amy (often through her diary) and Nick, Gone Girl cracks wide open and shines a spotlight on the often gendered expectations within a heteronormative marriage. Society pressures women to be flawless, never wavering in an aura of perfection. Gone Girl takes a sledge hammer to that.

In an outstanding and riveting performance by Rosamund Pike, Amy is a fascinating character. She’s brilliant, pragmatic and narcissistic. We watch her shift effortlessly from a devoted and then fearful wife to a calculating and fearlessly manipulative villain. A ruthless, Machiavellian anti-hero, Amy morphs into whatever persona she needs to don to obtain her objective. She wears personalities like a cloak, shrouding her true nature and intentions. Filled with rage, she discards the role of the docile wife. She’s not going to live on her husband’s or any man’s terms. She refuses to fulfill society’s expectations.

Amy uses her femininity to achieve her diabolical goals. She uses her sexuality, wielding it as a weapon. They are tools in her arsenal to ensnare and punish men. But just as she readily adopts stereotypical feminine traits when she needs them, she also utilizes stereotypical masculine traits of anger and violence. Her gender informs her actions and the way she perceives the world. However, Amy despises gender norms and doesn’t want to be constrained by them. She doesn’t want to be a satellite to a man. She wants to do whatever she pleases, regardless of the consequences.

We don’t get to see women as anti-heroes or villains nearly enough. As it is, we suffer a dearth of female protagonists in film. While an abundance of female anti-heroes in film reigned during the 1930s, we suffer a lack of female anti-heroes in film today. We do see more female anti-heroes on television: Patty Hewes (Damages), Olivia Pope (Scandal), Gemma Teller Morrow (Sons of Anarchy), Skyler White (Breaking Bad), Carrie Mathison (Homeland), Elizabeth Jennings (The Americans) and Claire Underwood (House of Cards). But we still see far more men in anti-hero roles on television.

Now, I don’t believe that female protagonists need to be “likable.” There’s a compelling argument by Roxane Gay as to why they shouldn’t be likable. Conventionally unlikable women don’t give a shit about what others think of them. And neither does Amy. That’s what makes Gone Girl somewhat refreshing. Here we see an unapologetically ruthless woman.

I have to applaud Amy’s rage and defiance. Although I’m horrified by her disturbing, sociopathic and misogynist tactics. This is why I relish Amy’s notorious “Cool Girl” speech. “The cool girl. The cool girl is hot. Cool girl doesn’t get angry. … And she presents her mouth for fucking.” This is a scathing commentary on how men see women as objects, as vessels, as accessories, not as entities unto themselves. I couldn’t help but say, “FUCK YEAH,” while Amy recited it. Her speech succinctly encapsulates the Male Gaze and hetero men’s expectations of women, while shattering the illusion that women are never angry and that women merely orbit men, suffocating their own needs and desires. Amy’s speech illustrates that society tells women to contort themselves to seek men’s approval.

As much as I cheer for the astute and searing commentary in the “Cool Girl” speech, Amy also condemns women complicit in this charade. She despises how women fall into their prescribed roles, all for the enjoyment of men. When Amy recites this speech, she’s driving in a car, gazing at myriad women passing by. As David Haglund points out, director David Fincher chose the images, not of men but of women, to coincide with Amy’s words. So while the words condemn men, the corresponding images implicate women, making everyone culpable. It becomes a condemnation of women themselves, that they shouldn’t fall into the trap of pantomiming this performance.

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What could have potentially been a feminist manifesto mutates into something ripped out of a misogynist’s or Men’s Rights Activist (MRA)’s warped fantasy.

The biggest problem with Gone Girl lies in the tactics Amy utilizes to punish men — by faking intimate partner violence and rape. Amy ties her wrists with rope, squeezing and tightening them while turning her wrists and she hits her face with a hammer to simulate abuse. She repeatedly shoves a wine bottle up her vagina to simulate the bruising and tearing from rape. Amy falsely accuses men of rape, stalking and abuse, all for her own ends. Amy convincingly plays the role of an abuse survivor. It’s scary because this is the kind of bullshit people believe — that women lie and make shit up to wreak vengeance on men.

Author/screenwriter Gillian Flynn said that Amy “knows all the tropes” and she can “play any role that she wants.” But therein lies the problem. Abuse victims and survivors are not merely “tropes” or “roles.” Amy pretends she is being abused in order to frame Nick by writing in her diary that she fears for her life and worries that her husband might kill her. She says she feels “disposable,” something that could be “jettisoned.” Women murdered at the hands of abusive partners are typically treated as disposable in our society. People tell victims/survivors that they should have known better, they must have provoked their abuse. People question why victims/survivors stay with abusive partners. People put the onus on women to prevent rape. These are the myths that films, TV series and news media reinforce. It’s extremely problematic to equate Amy playing “the role” of an abused rape victim with actual women abused and raped.

As a domestic violence survivor, I find the turn the film takes extremely offensive. This is the narrative too many people already have embedded in their minds — that women exaggerate, fabricate and lie about abuse and rape in order to trick or trap men in their web of lies. This is one of the biggest, most pervasive and most dangerous myths about abuse. Here’s the reality. One in four women in the U.S. report intimate partner violence. One in three women worldwide will experience partner abuse. One in five women report being raped. Yet here is this film (and book) contrasting reality and reifying rape culture.

We also see victim-blaming underscored in the film from Amy’s neighbor Greta. When they first meet, Greta comments on the bruise on Amy’s face saying, “Well, we have the same taste in men.” Yet when the two women are watching a news program on Amy’s disappearance and how the leading cause of death for pregnant women is homicide (it is), Greta calls on-screen Amy (feigning ignorance that the real Amy is right next to her) a “spoiled,” “rich bitch.” She goes on to say, “While she doesn’t deserve it, there are consequences.” While this is a commentary on privilege and Greta has survived abuse too, this also amounts to victim-blaming 101.

But the victim-blaming doesn’t stop there. One of Amy’s exes talks to Nick and tells him how she falsely accused him of rape and had a restraining order placed on him. He tells Nick that when he saw her on the news missing, “I thought there’s Amy. She’s gone from being raped to being murdered.” Again this underscores the myth that women lie about rape and abuse. But the numbers are so low for reports of false rape and domestic violence that they are almost non-existent.

Victim-blaming myths permeate every facet of our society. Janay Rice’s abuse and the resulting #WhyIStayed conversation recently highlighted the myriad myths people believe about intimate partner violence, particularly when it comes to women of color. People feel they need “proof” to verify or corroborate a victim/survivor’s trauma. Society perpetually places the onus on women for their abuse rather than on where it belongs: with the abuser. As we’ve seen with Marissa Alexander, the legal system doesn’t reward but rather punishes domestic violence survivors. This happens again and again, over and over. Women are not believed. And it’s dangerous to keep feeding this narrative.

Rape is “an epidemic.” Violence against women is an epidemic. We live in a rape culture that inculcates the abuse and objectification of women and dismisses violence against women. Society makes every excuse for abusers while it unilaterally shames and blames victims and survivors of intimate partner violence, rape and sexual assault.

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Some might try to assuage Gone Girl’s misogyny by declaring Amy’s misandry or by underscoring that there are two female characters – Detective Rhonda Boney and Margo Dunne – who are onto Amy’s game. But it doesn’t. When you have a protagonist doing despicable things, the film/TV series often straddles a fine line between condemnation and glorification. However, there is a way for a film/TV series to delineate their message: by the comments and perspectives of ancillary characters. Breaking Bad illustrates this beautifully. Despite what many fanboys got wrong, we are NOT supposed to identify with power-hungry, abusive, rapist Walter White. We may be fascinated by Walter’s fierce intelligence. But we are supposed to identify with Jesse and Skyler, both of whom are the heart and conscience of the show. They are the ones telling us the audience, both overtly and covertly, that Walter’s actions are despicable and monstrous.

In Gone Girl, almost every character condemns and despises Amy. They loathe her for her manipulations and how she has framed Nick. But no character comments on how Amy’s actions reinforce rape culture. Not one. Rhonda could have easily mentioned the stats for women reporting rape or domestic abuse, how few rape and abuse cases are brought to trial and even fewer convicted because of victim-blaming biases. Nick’s sister Margo could have said how horrible Amy’s schemes are not only for her brother but the implications for other women too. But everyone in the film only focuses on how Amy’s actions impact Nick. Nick even says at one point in the film, “I’m so sick of being picked apart by women.” (Boo hoo, poor Nick. Isn’t that every misogynist’s anthem??) So when Nick slams Amy’s head into the wall and calls her a “cunt” towards the end of the film — despite his abusive actions and misogynist language — we the audience are supposed to sympathize with him because he just wants to be a good dad, because he’s the one victimized by this manipulative shrew.

I wish I could love this film without reservations. I wish I could say that Gone Girl is a subversive feminist film exposing myriad gender biases and generating a much-needed dialogue on rape and domestic violence. Yet it reinforces dangerous myths rather than shattering them. The embedded “Cool Girl” speech rails against the patriarchal notion that women serve as nothing more than accessories and sexual objects to men. But the film falters by playing into a victim-blaming narrative reinforcing rape culture.

We need more complex female protagonists. We need more female anti-heroes and villains. If only we could have one in a film that doesn’t simultaneously perpetuate the misogynist notion that women lie about rape and abuse.


Megan Kearns is Bitch Flicks’ Social Media Director, a freelance writer and a feminist vegan blogger. She’s a member of the Boston Online Film Critics Association (BOFCA). She tweets at @OpinionessWorld.

What’s Missing from the ‘Gone Girl’ Debate? Privilege!

‘Gone Girl’ has been called misogynist, an amalgamation of negative stereotypes of women, a text that perpetuates rape culture, and a narrative that fuels Men’s Rights Acivtists’ ugly depiction of the gender equality feminists are trying to achieve.

Putting the talent of the author aside – because I do think Gillian Flynn is an incredible writer – I want to address this feminist ire directed at ‘Gone Girl.’

To an extent, I agree with it. Yet, what is missing from the discussion is a focus on privilege.

This guest post by Natalie Wilson previously appeared in a shorter version at the Ms. Blog and is cross-posted with permission.

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WARNING: THIS PIECE CONTAINS SPOILERS!

Gone Girl has been called misogynist, an amalgamation of negative stereotypes of women, a text that perpetuates rape culture, and a narrative that fuels Men’s Rights Acivtists’ ugly depiction of the gender equality feminists are trying to achieve.

Putting the talent of the author aside – because I do think Gillian Flynn is an incredible writer – I want to address this feminist ire directed at Gone Girl.

To an extent, I agree with it. Yet, what is missing from the discussion is a focus on privilege.

Amy Elliot Dunne, the protagonist of Gone Girl, is white, wealthy, heterosexual, and conventionally attractive (many privileges which her creator, Gillian Flynn, shares).

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Yes, Amy is a female, but she is an EXCESSIVELY privileged one, so privileged, in fact, that she has the necessary funds, skills, know-how, and spare time to concoct a near iron-clad story in which she convinces the media, the law, her community, and her family that she has been raped, abused by her husband, kidnapped, imprisoned, and possibly murdered.

Flynn, even given the worldwide success of her writing, is, I would guess, not nearly as privileged as Amy. Plus, if details at the author’s website are correct, she worked odd jobs throughout high school; Amy is not the type of female that had to work in high school, and especially not at anything where she would be made to dress up as a cone of yogurt.

In addition to her privilege, is Amy in fact a compilation of the evils MRAs spout on about in relation to “strong” women? In ways, yes. But this is just it – she is able to be strong – and, yes, to be evil – because she has the privilege to do so. As the saying goes, idle hands make the devil’s work.

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Amy is narcissistic, vain, and shallow – and has enough time on her hands to fill her calendar with carefully labeled, color-coded post-its with details of her murder plot. And, once the plot is set in motion, handily has secured enough cash to buy a car, a new wardrobe, and keep her going for who knows how long. When that falls through, there is the very rich former boyfriend Dezi, who will put her up in his “lakehouse” – a spare house that makes many mansions look shabby.

Yes. This is fiction. Yes, it’s a dark, twisted, mystery. It is obviously meant to be. The author herself made it clear that she “wanted to write about the violence of women” after her first book, Sharp Objects. And this is not a problem – not at all – but what is vexing with Gone Girl is at the heart of its narrative is a woman that falsely accuses several men of rape and assault – and tries to frame one of them for murder. This story is a fiction. But rape and assault are at epidemic levels in our society – along with the horrible statistics is a pervasive narrative often called “blaming the victim.” At the heart of this narrative is the myth that females lie about rape. Not once in a blue moon. But often.

This is not what I want to focus on though – what I want to focus on is how privilege allows the fictional Amy to get away with all the atrocities she commits. If she “cried rape” (as MRAs and the media often suggest women do), would she be as readily believed if she were a woman of color? What if she were a prostitute? What if she committed murder and tried to convince the cops of her innocence via mere words? Would she be believed if she were, say, a young Black male? If she accused her partner of physical abuse and adultery would she become America’s media darling if she were not cisgender?

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The story of Kalief Browder, featured in The New Yorker, who served three years at Ryker’s Island, most of it in solitary confinement without trial before he was deemed innocent; of Renisha McBride; of Ferguson; is proof that innocence does not mean much for people of color in a society that frames those with non-white skin as born guilty (to borrow Dorothy Roberts claim made in her classic Killing the Black Body).

Gone Girl is not making a critique of privilege though, nor of how Amy’s whiteness and wealth – at least in ways – puts her above the law. Instead, Amy’s ability to frame others for crimes they did not commit and become America’s media darling has been acclaimed as a wonderfully concocted mystery by a talented author. As for Amy’s ability to pull off her fictive story within a story in the novel and the film adapation, this ability is never overtly linked to her privilege – unless you count the fact the film nods toward how wealthy she is, given her cat has its own bedroom. Rather, her success at framing others is presented as a very well-planned revenge plot carried out by a very smart, very malicious woman.

Admittedly, there are things the story does well in terms of critiquing societal problems. A key area in this regard is the portrayal of the media. As with the novel, the film delves into the media circus, giving us talking heads that spin hypotheses about Amy’s whereabouts and who is to blame for her disappearance – hypotheses that quickly lead to the narrative Amy intended: that her husband Nick is guilty, and she is the innocent, abused spouse all America should be routing (and praying) for.

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Amy clearly knows how to play straight into the hands of the of “The Ellen Abbot Show” – a fictionalized version of the likes of Nancy Grace. Amy notes, while concocting her plan, that “America loves pregnant women,” and, indeed, Ellen plays up Amy’s pregnancy to garner sympathy for her – and ire for her husband Nick. However, had Amy been a pregnant Latina, or working class, or a single woman, would she still be framed in this way by the real Ellen Abbots of the  world? Doubtful.

In fact, if Amy’s accusations of rape against not one, but three men, were to be reported in the real world media, it is likely she would blamed, interrogated, and have her reputation besmirched, especially if she lacked many of the privileges Amy’s character has. As noted in “Gone Girl and the Specter of Feminism,”

“Our society makes real-life survivors of rape into villains every single day. We assume ulterior motives. We invade and question their sexual history as if it’s relevant. We make rape survivors into whores and sluts, into evil, evil women who are only out to hurt and punish men. And that’s if we don’t ignore them altogether, or if they can summon the courage to report the rape at all.”

And though only 2 to 8 percent of reported rapes are determined to be unfounded, it is, as #2 reports, a “norm of the media to question the authenticity of rape victims that dare to step forward and seek justice.”

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In the film, Tanner Bolt , the big-shot lawyer defending Nick, is portrayed as particularly media savvy. He says of Amy, for example, that “she is telling the perfect story.” And though his race is not highlighted as a factor, his know-how of the media and the key role public perception plays can be read as shaping the story he tells the world in public appearances.

Tanner advises Nick to do the same, telling him, “This case is about what people think of you,” and emphasizes the need for a huge re-alignment of public perception. Tanner knows this, and Nick should (especially given his former work as a journalist). Read through the lens of race, however (a lens, let me emphasize, the narrative itself does NOT interrogate), one can argue Tanner has to be more savvy than Nick and that Nick is allowed to live in a privilege bubble, one that leads him to assume people are going to believe him.

What people think of Amy – and Nick – is largely determined by their privilege. They live in a huge house, she is a “housewife,” they are both former writers, they are attractive, white, heterosexual, and have the requisite pet – as well as aspirations –  on Nick’s part at least – to have children. They are the picture-perfect American couple.

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But, this image is a fiction. And the fact the story plays around this fictive construct of what perfection is – and what a perfect marriage is – is one of its most intriguing features. Amy’s diary, a mixture of truth and fiction, is key here. In one telling scene, Detective Boney (my favorite character by far, perhaps as she has the most feminist gumption) goes through Amy’s diary, now being used as police evidence, and asks Nick what is true and what is fiction. The mixture of lies and truth within the diary, and within the entire narrative, make it hard to discern any reliability.

As argued in “The Misogynistic Portrayal of Villainy in Gone Girl,” Amy makes a magnificent unreliable narrator. Sadly though, she is believed – by the media, by the community, even by us, the audience.

If only her believability was tied to her privilege, Flynn could have had a narrative that did something feminists could applaud – a narrative that pulled back the sham of “perfect femininity” and showed the ugly undersides of unfair societal dictates.

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Instead, Flynn gives us a character that shares her own privileges – and her own penchant for spinning fictions – rather than one who lays bare the injustices that make the likes of Ellen Abbott believe her, that have lawyers running to defend Nick pro bono, that result in a media machine feeding off this one tragedy while ignoring wider injustices – injustice the camera actually lingers on at the start of the film, making the Missouri of Gone Girl remind one of the Detroit featured in Michael Moore’s Roger and Me.

While the narrative condemns what director David Fincher calls the “tragedy vampirism” of the media, it never takes the next step of pointing out how the poverty and homelessness of the community in which the story takes place plays a role in why Amy becomes a media darling and allows her husband to plausibly suggest the “homeless” are to blame for Amy’s disappearance.

The narrative also never takes any step toward addressing the reality of widespread sexual violence and domestic abuse, instead using this device as just one more piece of grist for its suspenseful, plot-twisting mystery.

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In one scene, Amy creates the “proof” of her rapes via thrusting a wine bottle inside herself as she icily gazes in the mirror (a scene also in the book). This comes after we learn she has destroyed the life of a completely innocent man by also framing him for rape, merely because he lost interest in her. And, in the most fraudulent, unbelievable plot point, this man tells us he was about to be put away for 30 years on a first degree felony. Guess how often rapists are put away for 30 years? Not often.

So, yes, Amy is a villain, some suggest a sociopath, but I heartily disagree that her horribleness could only come from a “female mind” – which is exactly what the actress who plays her – Rosamund Pike  – claims, that “the way her brain works is purely female.”

Instead, Amy’s villainy, and the fact she gets away with it, can be linked to her substantial wealth, her Ivy League schooling, her full immersion into the culture of “cool girls” and personality quizzes and, perhaps most of all, her sense of entitlement, revealed particularly in the way she expects to be treated, especially by Nick. In a key passage from the novel (also used in the film), Amy embodies the faux-feminism that defines her character, condemning constricting expectations of femininity on the one hand, but, on the other, hinting at  the narcissistic darkside of her anger:

“I hated Nick for being surprised when I became me. I hated him for not knowing it had to end, for truly believing he had married this creature, this figment of the imagination of a million masturbatory men, semen-fingered and self-satisfied. He truly seemed astonished when I asked him to listen to me. He couldn’t believe I didn’t love wax-stripping my pussy raw and blowing him on request. That I did mind when he didn’t show up for drinks with my friends… Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you?

In ways, we want to applaud Amy for condemning the “cool girl” and demanding females deserve to be listened to – as this seems a feminist message. But, ultimately, Amy is far more like Ann Coulter than Amy Poehler.

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Though some might argue Amy is fully aware of and even using her privilege, I disagree. She is aware of being attractive, wealthy, and powerful, yes, but not any feminist way that questions or denounces or even deliberately deploys her privilege. One of the most telling parts of the narrative to display this is in her interactions with Greta, a working class character Amy assumes to be stupid and inept. Greta sees through Amy’s disguises though, and craftily separates her from her wad of cash (which is when Amy is forced to call on Desi to rescue her). The stark difference in the scope of their crimes can be linked to privilege – Amy’s excess verses Greta’s lack. Their experiences and attitudes toward violence are also telling, Greta is familiar with how common male violence against women is, where Amy is not – the violence she accuses men of is actually violence her privilege has protected her from. This is not to say priviledged women never experience violence – but Amy does not, at least not physical violence. Though this strand of the narrative has much feminist potential, the narrative overall does not offer a feminist critique of privilege, let alone violence.

Further, as argued in a post at Interrogating Media, there is a discernible backhanded attitude towards feminism littered throughout the novel. Amy condemns post-feminist men afraid of sexual roughness, for example. But, more than actual comments from Amy, there is a sort of post-feminist cheerleading in the narrative, one that is in keeping with Flynn’s discussion of why she is drawn to writing about the violence of women::

“Isn’t it time to acknowledge the ugly side? I’ve grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains — good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn’t necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn’t qualify either). I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side.”

This passage seems to come from within a privilege bubble – one that allows the author to suggest that “fashionistas” or “WASP mothers” or “soapy vixens” – and of course “brave rape victims” – are rather dreary and boring, and that what is needed is to do away with this annoying “girl powering” so we can fill libraries with stories of generations of brutal women (something Flynn seems to envy about male stories). And, don’t get me wrong, like Flynn, I agree we need wicked queens and evil stepmothers and villainous women.  It is her reasoning I don’t agree with, that “women like to read about murderous mothers and lost little girls because it’s our only mainstream outlet to even begin discussing violence on a personal level.” Hello? Gillian? Have you heard of this little thing called feminism? Perhaps the phrase “the personal is political” rings a bell?

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You see, Flynn’s version of “girl-powering” feminism leaves out actual feminism. Like the stuff of an Ann Coulter dream, it points a finger at Amy, a “girl who has it all” and says, “look at what that women’s lib stuff has wrought!” What it does not point a finger at, not even give a quick passing glance, is those working in sweat shops to make the shoes the “fashionista” covets, the thousands of rapes that go unreported, not due to lack of bravery, but to do the complicated realities of living in a rape culture, the girls who don’t have access to the “parodic encouragement” of any sort of girl-power because they are poor, they are undocumented, or, to use Flynn’s fictive idea, they are nothing like the “Amazing Amys” of the world.

To be clear, I am not suggesting that all narratives need to pack a social justice punch. However, given that Flynn’s novel explores an extremely hot button issue, and created quite the intense feminist debate, it seems odd Flynn never directly addresses the key critique lobbied at Gone Girl, but instead made widely publicized claims the ending of Gone Girl would be changed in the film adaptation–suggesting the changes to the narrative would reframe the very things that angered readers. Though the screenplay is altered from the book, the ending remains the same overall – Amy is not arrested or even blamed – instead, she has manipulated Nick into staying with her and keeping mum about her guilt by impregnating herself with some of his semen she handily stored away. Ah, the privilege of access to sperm banks!

Such tales are not by any means unique in Hollywood – nor are they bad per se. Rather, Flynn’s keenness to defend her work while naming herself a feminist seems off somehow – at least – what seems missing – is a recognition of her own partial, and very privileged, viewpoint. Some women do in fact have  to discuss and think about violence all the time in order to survive, not to write bestselling novels. And I want her to keep writing – she is a great writer – but it would be wonderful if at some point she could address – specifically – some of the realities of the rape culture of our society in an interview or public appearance. Not addressing feminism is fine, but to do so in the vein of being so burnt out on “spunky heroines” and “brave rape victims”? Well, that doesn’t sit so well with this feminist.

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Perhaps the “parodic encouragement” Flynn refers to as defining feminism is her experience of feminism. Maybe this is partly what fueled the plot point in Gone Girl wherein Amy’s parents made their fortune via “Amazing Amy” books – a series whose main character is much like the real Amy, but better. In a sense, these books are parodying Amy’s life and encouraging her to be more amazing. A woman who has and does it all. A real go getter. This fact serves as an explanation as to why Amy “has never really felt like a person, but a product” (Gone Girl).

But, again, the story falls short of condemning this type of “you go girl” faux-feminism or the notion women can (and should) have it all. It also is not critical of celebrity, fame, and fortune – even though the fortune of Amy’s family comes at the expense of her happiness and sanity. Yes, at one point Amy notes that her parents exploited her childhood and she does seem bitter about this. But this exploitation, from parents she interestingly defines as feminist, is partly what leads to her ability to constantly be playing at being Amy – to live the role of cool girl, good wife, battered wife, and so on. We are not instructed to condemn Amy’s parents exploitation of her – instead we are encouraged to be angry at her parents for mismanaging their money and having to borrow from her trust fund – leaving poor Amy to survive in a Missouri mansion rather than a Manhatten brownstone.

Though much has been written about Flynn’s comments about feminism, her portrayal of women, and her writing, I have not come across her ever mentioning privilege being something she was interested in exploring, even though her characters and  her own discussions of why she chooses the focus matter she does drip with privilege.  Flynn comes from a privileged background herself, and perhaps this partly explains Gone Girl’s failure to own up to the role Amy’s privilege plays in her “success” in any overt way. Who knows. What I do know is this: not addressing Amy’s privilege directly – and Nick’s, and Dezi’s and Margot’s –  has the effect of making the novel seem to be – as argued in the “Gone Girl and the Specter of Feminism,” a piece that serves as a “crystallization of a thousand misogynist myths and fears about female behavior” as if we had “strapped a bunch of Men’s Rights Advocates to beds and downloaded their nightmares.”

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In The Guardian piece, “Gillian Flynn on her bestseller Gone Girl and accusations of misogyny”, Oliver Burkeman writes “This is a recurring theme in Flynn’s life: the psychological bungee-jump that permits an author to plunge into barbarity precisely because she’s securely moored in its opposite.” Detailing how Flynn locks herself away in her writing basement for hours, Burkeman notes that “In the early afternoons, she surfaces from the gloom into daylight, to play with her son for an hour or two.” Then, in Flynn’s own words, “It’s back down through the basement again, to write about murder.” Ah, the joys of a post-feminist life!

So, to wrap up this privileged take on Gone Girl: is it a good film? Yes and no. Fincher is great director and Flynn is a great writer – they both tell dark stories well. The movie is compelling and Pike is great as Amy, as is Kim Dickens as Detective Boney, the most feminist character of the film and the one I would most like to see a spinoff series about!

It is good as a film, but it is not a feminist film.

As Esther Bergdahl asks rhetorically in her post, “Is a film feminist if a female character vindicates every men’s rights activist on Reddit?” Of course not. But, just as obviously, this doesn’t mean feminists shouldn’t see it – and discuss it – in fact, just the opposite.

 


Natalie Wilson, PhD is a literature and women’s studies scholar, blogger, and author. She teaches at Cal State San Marcos and specializes in areas of gender studies, feminism, feminist theory, girl studies, militarism, body studies, boy culture and masculinity, contemporary literature, and popular culture. She is author of the blogs Professor, what if …? and Seduced by Twilight. She is a proud feminist mom of two feminist kids (one daughter, one son) and is an admitted pop-culture junkie. Her favorite food is chocolate.