Guillermo del Toro – Bitch Flicks

Mining the Feminist Messages of ‘Crimson Peak’

In fact, she genuinely began to feel “depressed” from playing Lucille. However, when she confided this in on-screen brother Tom Hiddleston, who has famously played characters such as Marvel villain Loki, he shared that “you only have fun when your character is having fun,” and, as Chastain explains, “Lucille hasn’t had a fun day in her life.” As the victim of intense patriarchal oppression, it’s no wonder.

(Contains SPOILERS for Crimson Peak.)

When filming Guillermo del Toro’s most recent film, Crimson Peak, Jessica Chastain felt surprised that playing the villain, Lucille Sharpe, wasn’t as “fun” as other actors describe playing villainous roles to be. In fact, she genuinely began to feel “depressed” from playing Lucille. However, when she confided this in on-screen brother Tom Hiddleston, who has famously played characters such as Marvel villain Loki, he shared that “you only have fun when your character is having fun,” and, as Chastain explains, “Lucille hasn’t had a fun day in her life.” As the victim of intense patriarchal oppression, it’s no wonder.

As patriarchal values are all Lucille has known, those are the tools she uses to attempt to gain and maintain control over her own life and to protect her beloved younger brother, Thomas. By adopting patriarchal means of action, even while being miserable doing it, Lucille becomes a “formidable” antagonist to Mia Wasikowska’s protagonist Edith. This is despite Lucille being entirely (and sympathetically) driven in her actions by profound love and a deep-seated fear of being alone. Turning on other women, including Edith, leads to Lucille’s ultimate downfall, and at Edith’s hands, who was only trying to defend herself and others. As Lucille’s sad life portrays, oppression, such as that from patriarchy, cannot be combatted by becoming an oppressor oneself.

Like many of del Toro’s films, this film deals with knowing and learning about the past in order to move forward and not repeat past mistakes or crimes. Lucille experiences abuse, internalizes it, and then takes it out on other women. Edith, meanwhile, suffers minor abuse, is supported in her efforts to rise against it, and attempts to support other women herself. Though the men in the story make many mistakes in their attempts to be allies to Edith, some of their actions aide Edith when her strength and determination need a little boost. However, it is largely due to the help of other women, albeit none still living, that Edith is able to accomplish what she does, whether it is through the role model of “Frankenstein” author Mary Shelly, or the female ghosts that warn and aide her.

It is only when Edith chooses to listen to the messages that these female ghosts have for her, whether through old wax recordings or their own spectral presences, that Edith learns what she needs to know in order to move forward in her own life. Through joined female effort and learning about what came before her, Edith and the audience can effectively move into the present and take the most effective action in efforts to support the lives of women. With the help of other women, the occasionally non-burdensome help of male allies (again, the men make a number of dangerous mistakes – usually by underestimating both Edith and Lucille), and a lot of her own effort, Edith succeeds in getting through danger, not unscathed, but alive. She then publishes the fruit of her labor, her novel, under her own name – quite something for a woman to do in 1901. (The date is not provided in the film, but was given by Tom Hiddleston in this interview.)

Lucille is strongly compared to and contrasted against Edith throughout the film. Edith is an ambitious writer who defends her career choice and preferred suspenseful genres against patriarchal and condescending men and women alike. Edith marries the baronet Thomas Sharpe, who is “a dreamer” like her, in part because he is supportive of her writing. Edith continues to work on her novel after their marriage, just as Thomas continues to work on his mining invention (Yes, the “Sharpe Mines” – I see what you did there, del Toro). Lucille could have made a career as a marvelous composer and pianist, but lacked the supportive upbringing that Edith received, and rarely writes or plays (or, indeed, lives) except for her younger brother. At one point, Lucille throws Edith’s manuscript, page by page, into the fire, saying dismissively “You thought you were a writer….” Meanwhile Lucille never takes credit for the beautiful lullaby she seemingly wrote – for Thomas, naturally.

This reflects the internalization of her years of neglect and abuse, a childhood alternately locked away upstairs or physically beaten with a cane, forced to care at an early age for her abusive mother after her father “snapped [Lucille’s mother’s] leg under his boot,” and then sent to and locked away in a mental institution in continental Europe, away from her only comfort – her brother. So internalized is the abuse and pain, Lucille even thinks she is doing her female victims a favor by killing them, as shown in the scene in which Lucille feeds Edith (poisoned) porridge while speaking about her relationship with her mother.

Throughout her life, Lucille protects Thomas both from oppression and from becoming much of an oppressor himself, keeping him from having to “get [his] hands dirty.” Thomas therefore comes out of a patriarchal past relatively less broken than Lucille, and is able to maintain a bit more of his humanity. It is this humanity, which Lucille made sure to help him preserve in himself, that leads him to experience guilt for what Lucille and he do – exploiting and poisoning vulnerable women for their wealth. It is this guilt that Edith, the protagonist, inadvertently exploits when she encourages him to not live “in the past.” Edith does not seek out to reform Thomas, unlike in so many “romances” that glorify toxic and abusive relationships – he himself makes the choice to help and defend Edith against Lucille. In fact, when Edith finds out what he has done, she understandably does not hesitate to attack him in self-defense. Heartbreakingly, it is revolutionary even today that Edith is not a Bella Swan or a Manic Pixie Dream Girl used by Thomas to feel better about himself. Edith is romantic with Thomas only when she is unaware of what he has done, and then defends herself from her would-be co-murderer.

Meanwhile, while Edith moves into the future after learning from the past, Lucille is “entrenched” in the “history” of the house and the family, and does not “progress.” Lucille grew up in Victorian England and continental Europe being abused by patriarchal society, patriarchal figures, and patriarchal values. Much of what she does is in keeping with these values, clinging to “the past” and the “shadows” as the Edwardian era begins. Patriarchal values are all she has known, and her actions in the film reflect that, whether she is playing the role patriarchy expects her as a woman to play, such as caretaker, or when she emulates patriarchal violence in order to sustain the way of life she and her brother share, such as when she brutally murders Edith’s father Carter Cushing (played by Jim Beaver).

Patriarchy makes many demands on women. It demands that women internalize sexism and abuse, then take out their anger and frustration on other women in horizontal/in-group violence. Lucille fulfills this requirement of patriarchy many times and in many ways, as did her mother before her – and against her. Patriarchy demands that women lack confidence in themselves, and predominantly define themselves by how they do or do not look. Lucille implies that she feels that she “lack[s] beauty” and youth, while women are still fighting against confidence-destroying beauty and age standards today. Patriarchy demands that women value men more than other women, and more than themselves. Lucille centers her brother, Thomas, and her family’s history above all else, and even seems to blame her mother more than her father for the family’s suffering and destruction. This is especially sad, since it was her father’s abuse of her mother that made her mother take out her anger at him in abusing her children. Patriarchy demands that women compete with each other for the little that is offered them, and so Lucille preys upon other women to uphold the life she has created for her brother and herself.

In some ways, Lucille opposes patriarchal ideas of women, but only as manifestations of her role as protector for Thomas. Del Toro describes Thomas as “a stunted man, an adolescent,” and Lucille fills the roles of both mother and wife to him. As depicted by Katherine Fusciardi on Bitch Flicks, violence by women is seen as justifiable by society if it is committed by a mother to protect her child. Lucille takes on the role of violent protector for Thomas, the masculinity of it being emphasized when she crossdresses in order gain access into a men’s club. There, she violently kills Edith’s father, who was “coarse and condescending” to her beloved younger brother. Her role as protector, her clothing, and her violence in that scene are all culturally seen as masculine. When she emulates patriarchy, it is in order for her and Thomas to maintain a place in it, thereby attempting to be free from patriarchal oppression themselves. However, as stated in Alize Emme’s review of Heathers, “the power” of patriarchy to oppress others “is not something to aspire to.” Instead, female friendship creating support systems are all important. In order to gain true power and freedom, patriarchy must be overthrown in a group effort lead by women, not emulated by the individual. Though Lucille gains much needed money by oppressing other women, it hardly relieves her misery from years of external and internal abuse.

Not only does the story of Crimson Peak have many messages that can be mined (I would say the pun wasn’t intended, but that would be lying) for feminists, but del Toro’s casting choices reflect the feminism of his piece, with Jessica Chastain and Tom Hiddleston being open feminists. What is disappointing is that hardly any women were involved at all behind the camera, not even on the script, with the notable exception of Kate Hawley’s beautiful costume design. Del Toro then, unintentionally it seems, highlights his theme that men can make mistakes as allies, even when they have the best of intentions. Jessica Chastain is particularly vocal about the need for all women and all People of Color to be hired for work behind the camera, and for “all stories” to be told, not just that of “the few.” Hopefully del Toro and the other men onset learned these lessons while filming Crimson Peak, and they continue in learning how to be better allies.

‘Crimson Peak’: Guillermo del Toro’s Gothic Romance Offers a Gorgeous Chill

‘Crimson Peak’s connection to the “women’s pictures” of the ’40s and ’50s, and particularly Hitchcock’s ‘Rebecca,’ is instructive in reading it as a feminist film. Del Toro takes the tropes of a goodhearted, innocent protagonist, an oily older suitor, and a dangerous female rival whose hostility to the heroine is in part motivated by an “inappropriate” sexual desire, and recontextualizes them.

Guillermo del Toro’s eye-poppingly gorgeous new horror film/gothic romance, Crimson Peak, has generated mixed reviews, even getting panned by critics who acknowledge its aesthetic strengths. While complaints about the script (by del Toro and Matthew Robbins) aren’t entirely unfounded, complaints about the film’s excesses — from its gore to the batshit commitment of Jessica Chastain’s over-the-top performance, to the visual splendor itself — seem to misunderstand the filmmaker’s aim. Your mileage may vary, as always, but del Toro seems to be in complete control here. The movie is consistent in its vision, and consistent with the filmmaker’s work as a whole.

As he’s done throughout his career, del Toro mines the past for inspiration, then puts his own dark twist on the material. Crimson Peak‘s antecedents include Jane Eyre, Hitchcock classics like Suspicion and Rebecca, and the equally blood-drenched Hammer horror films of the 1950s-1970s. A horror geek of the highest order, del Toro makes loving use of the mood and plot elements of these older works, but makes the material his own.

Crimson Peak‘s connection to the “women’s pictures” of the ’40s and ’50s, and particularly Hitchcock’s Rebecca, is instructive in reading it as a feminist film. Del Toro takes the tropes of a goodhearted, innocent protagonist, an oily older suitor, and a dangerous female rival whose hostility to the heroine is in part motivated by an “inappropriate” sexual desire, and recontextualizes them. He makes the heroine, Edith Cushing (most likely named for Hammer star Peter Cushing), not merely an aspiring author who’s recently written a ghost story (“the ghost is a metaphor,” she explains), but the author of her own fate. As played by the consistently excellent Mia Wasikowska, Edith is a brave, resourceful, and powerful woman, with her own sexual desires.

Tom Hiddleston is Thomas Sharpe, British nobility fallen on hard times. Thomas is charming but weak, as he is batted about by the passions of the two powerful women in his life.

Chastain plays Lucille Sharpe, and from the beginning, both actor and director relish the character’s seething menace. There’s no doubt from the moment Lucille is introduced that she’s bad news, and that she’s running the show. As she explains threateningly to Edith early on in the film, Lucille is that black moth, thriving on dark and cold, and feeding on Edith’s pretty butterfly. It’s not a logical point in the film for Lucille to issue that veiled warning, but it delivers the intended chill, and, as with those ghosts, is a keen metaphor.

Edith is a frustrated author, living in turn-of-the-last-century Buffalo with her wealthy industrialist father, Carter (the great Jim Beaver, beloved of HBO’s Deadwood, bringing an unusual but perfect gruffer-than-thou haughtiness to the role). Edith has personal experience with the supernatural. Her mother’s ghost issued a mysterious warning to her, as a child: “Beware Crimson Peak!” But Edith’s ghost story is not taken seriously because of her gender. She has a suitor, Dr. Alan McMichael (Charlie Hunnam), an ophthalmologist with an interest in Sherlock Holmes, but he clearly doesn’t inspire her. Then Thomas Sharpe comes into her life. He’s handsome and charming and seems genuinely interested in her work. Sharpe is looking for a partner to fund some technical advances at his red clay mine in England, but Carter sees through Sharpe’s charm to his financial desperation.

Noting Sharpe’s interest in Edith, Carter hires a private investigator (Burn Gorman) to look into Thomas and Lucille, and what he uncovers (not revealed to the audience until later in the film, but it should be increasingly clear to all but the densest viewers what’s going on here) is unsettling enough that he threatens Thomas and Lucille with exposure if they don’t leave town immediately, sweetening the deal with a bribe, payable only if Thomas breaks Edith’s heart before he leaves. Thomas knows just how to do it, too, attacking her writing ability.

One gruesome, beautifully staged murder later, Edith is a new bride on her way to Allerdale Hall in England. Her mother’s ghost probably should have told her, “Beware Allerdale Hall!” and not referred to the place by its nickname, which Edith doesn’t find out about until it’s too late.

Allerdale Hall is a wonderful, creaky setting for a ghost story. It’s a classic haunted house, ancient and decrepit, filled with secrets and fluttering black moths. It’s built atop a deposit of red clay, and the blood red seeps into the building through the floors, walls, and pipes. Filled with mournful ghosts, it’s the perfect setting for a scary story, even if its true horrors are contained within the hearts of its living inhabitants.

It seems clear to me that del Toro is less concerned with creating a steel trap of a plot, which he fails to do in any case, and more concerned with atmosphere and with the emotional twists and turns of the story. If you’re chuckling and aghast at the film by turns, it’s working.

Even its detractors admit that Crimson Peak has atmosphere to spare, but they don’t give enough credit to del Toro and his collaborators (chief among them cinematographer Dan Laustsen and production designer Thomas E. Sanders) for creating a work that’s both gorgeous and extremely personal and unique. Crimson Peak is beautiful, but it’s not picture-postcard beautiful. It doesn’t look like a commercial for anything. It’s a fully realized vision of decay, gore, and grue. The playful transitions del Toro uses, those endearing wipes and irises, make it clear that del Toro is relishing the artificiality of it all. The performers play it straight, though, giving the story emotional heft despite that artifice.

Some have complained about the role the ghosts play in the film, but it’s as Edith says, they’re only a metaphor. They serve their function by being beautifully terrifying in their warnings to Edith. And their look — captured in the horror of their untimely deaths, wispy, smoke-like tendrils splaying out in every direction like flayed skin — is unique. It’s one of the few examples I can think of where CGI brings a unique visual sense to the horror — where it’s used expressively, and not just as a way to indicate scale, or to do things to the human body that can’t actually be done on a film set. These beautiful, unsettling ghosts are unlike any I’ve seen onscreen before.

Edith falls ill as she unravels Lucille and Thomas’s plot. Thomas begins to develop genuine feelings for his mark, enraging Lucille. Alan, meanwhile, begins his own stateside sleuthing, uncovering the truth about the Sharpes. During the film, I felt like Hunnam’s adenoidal performance was the weak link of the film, but again, I feel like this is something del Toro intended. It’s clear that neither Alan nor Thomas is truly worthy of Edith.

Her passion for Thomas is real, however, and eventually, she gets him away from Lucille long enough for him to have sex with her, on her terms. He’s weak and devious, but she wants him, and takes control of the situation to have her way.

For a while it seems Alan might save Edith, the damsel in distress. Those familiar with del Toro’s work know better, though. Since his second feature, Mimic, he has always had strong female characters in his films. In this instance, the strongest, Edith and Lucille, are destined to settle their score while the men look on from the sidelines.

If you’re alternately giggling and gasping, the movie is working. It’s outlandish and baroque, but the actors keep it grounded, and I found myself moved, not just by the passion of the characters, but by the evident passion of the filmmaker for the material. Crimson Peak may actually be Del Toro’s masterpiece. I’m convinced it is every bit as heartfelt and coherent as Pan’s Labyrinth, widely considered his best. This is a filmmaker working at the height of his abilities to deliver a grandly entertaining, uniquely gorgeous, and emotionally involving work of cinema, with a pronounced feminist bent.

Click here to see Del Toro discussing the film.

Father Archetypes in Guillermo Del Toro’s Films

There are patterns in Guillermo del Toro’s dark fairy tales, one of the obvious ones being the ease with which he puts children in harm’s way, some of their trials being so painfully harsh that one can’t help suspecting that he puts them in his stories just to tear at our heartstrings. Thankfully, the stories of childhood loss are balanced with protective Nurturer figures, some women, some men, but I’ll be focussing purely on the men because of the clichéd figure of the female nurturer.

This is a guest post by Rhea Daniel.

The Father archetype takes the form of king, tyrant, judge, doctor, executioner, devil, god, priest, take your pick, anything that traditional male roles offer. In real life as on reel, if their characters slip into the feminine role of nurturer (which should not be mistaken for saviour) we gush with praise, because he’s done something so contrary to his nature. On the other hand, we hold up the Mother to some very exacting standards, and are less likely to let her deviate from her primary role. While I’ve examined women’s roles in movies (because I felt there was such a dearth of complex ones), it jumped out at me how many men in Guillermo del Toro’s movies fit into archetypal Fatherhood roles, their characters too being complex, sometimes contradictory.

: : : SPOILERS AHEAD!! : : :

Vidal and Ofelia in Pan's Labyrinth — Vidal and Ofelia in *Pan’s Labyrinth*

The Tyrant

Captain Vidal from Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)

Vidal fits perfectly into the role of The Tyrant. Part of Ofelia’s trial is escaping his oppressive clutches and trying to save her mother at the same time. The Tyrant is your model patriarch; as a fascist, he represents the worst of the Patriarchy. He values sons over daughters, females are only valued as hosts to create the next generation of tyrants. In fact, the entire movie is ridden with imagery and subtexts of the oppressed feminine battling the militaristic autocracy of the despotic tyrant. While he was willing to allow his wife to die if it allowed his son to live, his Nurturer side, though selective, surfaces when the child is born.

A patriarch deigns to give his name only to those he prizes as legitimate offspring, the age-old system of the patriarchy wields its power as long as its descendants hold its dynastic title, and by being denied the right to perpetuate his name just before his death, The Tyrant is truly defeated.

The Faun and Ofelia in Pan's Labyrinth — The Faun and Ofelia in *Pan’s Labyrinth*

The Mage

The Faun in Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)

The Faun’s role is significant because his character displays the duality of the Mage/Trickster archetype. As an ancient being, with “old names that only the wind and the trees can pronounce,” he occupies the noble archetypal roles of the Mage– a Magician, for he is capable of magic; Holy Man for his ancient wisdom; Guide–because he helps Ofelia find her way home; Nurturer–for the advice, comfort and help he gives her when she needs it.

When Ofelia bungles at her tasks, however, he shows his ugly side by turning into Tyrant, and finally when the time arrives for the final test, he turns Trickster by posing a moral dilemma to Ofelia: if she allows her brother to be harmed she would gain entry to her father’s kingdom, if she doesn’t she will lose that chance forever.

Ofelia proves her worth and gains access to the fairy kingdom through unintentional sacrifice. In the real world children might be rewarded for their bravery but not for their innocence, and the director sure rubs that in.

Trevor Bruttenholm and Hellboy in Hellboy II: The Golden Army — Trevor Bruttenholm and Hellboy in *Hellboy II: The Golden Army*

The Alchemist*

Trevor Bruttenholm in Hellboy (2004)

The Alchemist can be wizard or scientist, he represents transformation and change. In a negative context, he nurses an destructive ambition to exploit the natural world for profit. Trevor Bruttenholm as the occultist is the positive Father-Nurturer, transforming a demon child, a monstrous thing born of another dimension, into a force for good. Rasputin on the other hand represents the other side of the Alchemist’s persona, destruction and change for the sake of personal gain.

Dr Casares and Carlos in The Devil's Backbone — Dr Casares and Carlos in *The Devil’s Backbone*

The Sage

Dr. Casares in The Devil’s Backbone (2001)

This movie is also set in a militaristic background, the orphan children are again victims of tyrants. Dr. Casares plays a true Nurturer figure in The Devil’s Backbone. As a man of science, he is a rationalist who denies the existence of Santi, the ghost child that tries to warn them of a coming disaster, emphasized by the unexploded bomb in the courtyard of the school.

His impotency might portray him as half a man, since virility is a necessary part of the Patriarchy, as it symbolizes power and regeneration. Casares is anything but a cold rationalist. When he takes a sip of the panacean Devil’s Backbone elixir, at first glance it’s a half-hearted attempt to cure his impotency, but by being teacher, guide and saviour to the fatherless children, he ultimately sacrifices his life while performing the role of Father-Nurturer, a role that requires the strength and willingness to put oneself in harms way to make sure one’s progeny survives.

Stacker Pentecost and Mako Mori in Pacific Rim — Stacker Pentecost and Mako Mori in *Pacific Rim*

The Knight

Stacker Pentecost in Pacific Rim (2013)

The Knight is a warrior with a code. He fights for justice, for the innocent, for the weak. He is chivalrous and stoic and that chivalry contributes to his sexism. While the argument between blind obedience and freeing oneself of the Father-Tyrant is shown several times, there are two fathers who let go of their children in the story. The ability of the Knight is limited, he can’t always protect his children, so to avoid becoming the hated archetypal Tyrant, the Knight has to free himself of the glory of his saviour role and acknowledge his limitations. Stacker Pentecost learns to let go, his eventual acknowledgment of Mako’s maturity shows his growth. He does not have to let go of his gallantry however, to “clear a path for the lady,” so she can make her own choice whether to risk her life in the battle.

* Going purely by the movie.

Rhea Daniel got to see a lot of movies as a kid because her family members were obsessive movie-watchers. She frequently finds herself in a bind between her love for art and her feminist conscience. Meanwhile she is trying to be a better writer and artist and you can find her at rheadaniel(dot)tumblr(dot)com.

Cool Robots, Bad-Ass Monsters and Disappointment in ‘Pacific Rim’

Pacific Rim movie poster.

Written by Leigh Kolb

Spoilers ahead!

The theme at the core of Pacific Rim is that collaboration and trust lead to success. And while the sweeping visuals of human-team-led robots (Jeagers) fighting with ocean monster-aliens (Kaiju) left me surprisingly entertained and satisfied, the dialogue and plot relied heavily on tired tropes.

Pacific Rim, directed and co-written by Guillermo del Toro, treads lightly around commentary on humans’ environmental abuse of Earth and allowing women in combat roles, but the bulk of the plot relies on trope after trope to support the larger-than-life action sequences between the Jaegers and Kaiju.

Overall, the film works, and it continues to get great reviews; however, it could have worked so much better had the writers tried a little harder to stay away from clichés.

The film takes place just a decade in the future, in a world that’s been rocked and partially destroyed by the Kaiju coming from the depths of the Pacific Ocean and attacking cities. The international government is halting the Jaeger program (which puts two pilots–who must share a “neural handshake” mind-meld–in the driver’s seat of an enormous robot), and the crew has one more opportunity to fight the Kaiju. Marshall Stacker Pentecost (Idris Elba) leads a crew that includes his hand-picked choice of Raleigh Becket (Charlie Hunnam) and, eventually, Mako Mori (Rinko Kikuchi).

Stacker Pentecost.

Each of these three characters has an emotional weight–Pentecost feels protective of and responsible for Mori (he rescued and adopted her when her family was killed by the Kaiju), Becket lost his brother to the Kaiju while the two were mentally connected and fighting as co-pilots in a Jaeger, and Mori lost her family to the Kaiju when she was a little girl and has spent her life studying and training to become a pilot–and she’s “one of our brightest,” Pentecost says.

In his leadership position, however, Pentecost is concerned that Mori’s vengeance and difficult memories will impede her abilities to be a pilot, so he limits her career. Becket–who was literally in his brother’s mind when his brother was ripped from their Jaeger and brutally killed–and his memories are of no real concern to Pentecost.

Mako Mori.

While Pentecost’s fatherly feelings of protection and concern are justifiable, Becket is forceful in his desire to have Mori as a co-pilot. Her test numbers are strong and she fights him as an equal, which none of the male candidates could. With trepidation, Pentecost allows Mori to be Becket’s co-pilot.

The larger idea that women are “too emotional” for combat positions has been pervasive throughout the debate of women serving in combat positions (which the American military officially accepted in January 2013). Mori does get caught in her memories in her first major flight simulation with Becket; however, if she’s had hands all around her wringing about that possibility, certainly her anxiety over it would have helped push her over the edge. When anyone is told, over and over again, that she is fragile and emotional–chances are, some of that will be internalized.

Pentecost angrily dismisses her after her memory drift almost causes mass destruction (in fact, she asks to be dismissed, as she “respects” Pentecost, which she tells Becket is different than being “obedient”). Becket–after seeing her memories–tells Pentecost, “You rescued her, you raised her… now you’re holding her back.”

Mori is an equal to Becket.

Mori’s respect/obedience is troubling at times, but overall she is a strong female character. She’s excellent at what she does, and she is persistent at succeeding and meeting her goals. In fact, when Becket gets in a fight when another pilot is disrespectful to Mori, it feels odd and out of place–“nonsensical” and “unnecessary,” as Zev Chevat says at The Mary Sue. Otherwise, Becket is her greatest champion and leads with experience without being condescending.

And while the plot ebbs and flows in regard to its depiction of women (and I use that term broadly–Mori is really the only female character with lines), the film comes close to satisfying my desire for diversity and empowered female roles, but then it quickly regresses into tired tropes.

Becket is happy to see Mori is his co-pilot.

Becket seems to be the protagonist (and I almost thought at the beginning that there would be some interesting commentary on masculinity and military culture–from the monstrous masculine robots to the fact that Becket has to work in a dangerous menial construction job before being reassigned), but Mori is more fully developed, in terms of her memories and motivations. The two share a clear bond, and whether or not it’s a romantic one depends on the viewer (del Toro wasn’t totally sure, either).

At the end (after Pentecost has figured out that they need Mori and he asks her to “protect him”), Becket and Mori travel into the depths of the Pacific to Save Humanity. Once they get there to drop the bomb, their oxygen levels plummet and Becket tells Mori to retreat into a protective pod so he can drop the bomb. “I can finish this alone,” he says, giving her his oxygen.

So he does. His motivations are pure, but it still seems like a letdown to the viewer after all that Mori has accomplished. The final blow that does, indeed, Save Humanity, is dropped by our white male protagonist (the black man has sacrificed himself, and the Asian woman is protected in a little bubble).

I would have loved to at least see Mori giving Becket CPR to save him in the aftermath (instead of him just waking up), or something to level the heroism. Her role feels diminished at the end.

Becket and Mori are both heroes, but Becket is the default protagonist.

I don’t need a female protagonist in every film. However, when a film like this focuses on and develops the female lead without giving her the satisfaction of being a clear hero, something feels off. Either more needed to be done with Becket’s emotional baggage, or less with Mori’s. As it stands, the film perpetuated the notion that women’s emotions could be a hindrance in combat, and men’s emotions translate to strength in battle. Stuffing Mori into a pod at the climax of the film is symbolic of trying to shoo women back into their protected spaces so they don’t fly too close to the sun. I don’t think Becket as a character would have approved of that idea, nor would del Toro, probably. But that scene certainly left that taste in the viewer’s mouth–let the white guy finish the job!

I can’t stress enough how entertaining and well-done the visuals of this film are–and again, that’s coming from someone who did not expect to feel exhilarated while watching monsters fight robots. The lightly developed characters and don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it female empowerment, however, left much to be desired. And while the optimistic ending and refreshing lack of American exceptionalism reinforce the idea that everyone–different ethnicities, genders, and races–needs to work together to succeed, the lackluster writing and reliance on tropes still sends the message that women’s emotions can be a hindrance and that they need to be protected.

Mori is instrumental in helping save the world–but she doesn’t get to set off the bomb. She’s not fully treated as a damsel in distress, but she comes too close for comfort. Maybe, just maybe, next time Becket can retreat to the pod while Mori fries the enemy.

In addition to having an almost-not-really female protagonist, Pacific Rim really only caters to the female gaze, in terms of mild sexual objectification. I guess I am simply perpetuating this.

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.

"You won’t be the first pig I’ve gutted!": The Women of ‘Pan’s Labyrinth’

Written by Amanda Rodriguez

I unabashedly adore Guillermo del Torro’s Pan’s Labyrinth. It’s beautifully rendered between two dark, cruel worlds. Our heroine, Ofelia, wants to escape the foreignness and brutality of her new life as the stepdaughter of “The Captain,” a cold and violent military officer hunting down rebels as part of Franco’s fascist regime in 1944 Spain. Though full of magic and possibilities, the fantastical Underworld to which she so desperately wants to escape (in which she is a lost princess whose father has searched eons for her) is also full of horrors, danger, and death. The story of this lost young girl striving to be brave and good, striving to believe in a better world despite all the pain and darkness is heartbreaking.

Pan’s Labyrinth passes the Bechdel test while showcasing three unique female characters. There’s young Ofelia herself along with her kind, mild, and beautiful mother, Carmen, and finally Mercedes, the housemaid who is secretly a rebel spy. All these women are depicted with compassion and depth, but let’s examine them each more deeply to see how they fare under a feminist lens.

First we have Ofelia.

Ofelia is an imaginative girl who loves books and her mother. Not only that, but she is a courageous and loyal tomboy who is willing to sacrifice her life as well as her mythic destiny for love of her infant half-brother. At first glance, Ofelia appears to be a strong feminist representation, but as I wrote about in my previous Bitch Flicks review “Brave and the Legacy of Female Prepubescent Power Fantasies”, things aren’t always as they appear. I say Merida from Brave and Ofelia from Pan’s Labyrinth (among others):

“[are] actually situated within a somewhat prolific trope of female prepubescent power fantasy tales. Within this trope, young girls are allowed and even encouraged to be strong, assertive, creative, and heroes of their own stories. I call them ‘feminism lite’ because these characters are only afforded this power because they are girl children who are unthreatening in their prepubescent, pre-sexualized state.”

When Ofelia meets the faun, he insists that, though he’s certain she is the immortal princess, she must undertake three tasks to prove her “innocence” is intact and that she has not truly become mortal yet. Metaphorically speaking, these tests will ensure her virginity; the implication being that if she is no longer a virginal child, she will not be pure enough to take her rightful place as heiress of the Underworld. In fact, when Ofelia must retrieve a dagger from the child-eating monster, her willful indulgence in two grapes nearly sabotages her bid for immortality. The carnality and unnatural appetites of the child-eating monster coupled with the beautiful, forbidden banquet in his chamber set the scene for a reenactment of Eve’s apple eating and the ensuing Fall of Man. The tasting of the forbidden fruit is synonymous with the awakening of sexuality, and when he learns of Ofelia’s inability to control her appetite, the faun cruelly rebuffs her, yelling that she has ruined her chances to return to her true home.

“You would give up your sacred rights for a brat you barely know? You would give up your throne for him?” – The Faun

Though Ofelia is the princess, the faun dictates all her rules and tasks, appearing and disappearing as he pleases and demanding she obey blindly. These traits are paralleled with The Captain’s black-and-white thinking as well as his cruel capriciousness. Both worlds are governed by cold patriarchal forces that this young girl must navigate, where she has no power to change the rules or the worlds themselves.

Next there is Carmen, Ofelia’s mother.

Carmen is a gentle and kind woman in an unenviable plight who we watch become drained of hope and life. Her husband, a tailor, dies, and she is left alone to care for her daughter in an uncertain, war-torn city, so she marries the unaffectionate, nearly inhuman Captain Vidal and becomes deathly ill carrying his child. Her poverty and the desperation of her situation are insinuated when Carmen says to Ofelia that The Captain, “has been very good to us. You have no idea.” However, the primary reason she gives Ofelia for marrying The Captain is, “I was alone too long.” Her sexual and relationship needs, the film insists, trump her dire straits. This is a unique characterization of a woman in that her needs as a woman governed her choice, and despite the catastrophic outcome, the film never blames or judges her for being human.

However, Carmen’s defining attribute is her beauty. While she sleeps, Carmen’s adoring daughter speaks to her little brother through Carmen’s belly saying, “She’s very pretty, you’ll see. Even though she’s sad some of the time, when she smiles, you’ll love her.” Not only is Carmen’s beauty of paramount importance, she is primarily concerned with superficial things like pretty dresses, clean shoes, modesty, and that her daughter grow up into a proper young woman. This, in combination with the way she languishes in such a difficult pregnancy, define Carmen as “mother.” Being pregnant with the offspring of such an evil man threatens Carmen’s health and ultimately kills her. Though this tale is magical realism, I’m uncomfortable with the “beautiful vessel” implications that are inescapable in Carmen’s characterization. However, her troubled pregnancy can also be interpreted as her loss of hope. When the story begins, Carmen is full of expectations about how life will be once she and her daughter settle in with The Captain at his base. By the end of her pregnancy, though, she says through lips bleached of life, “As you get older, you’ll see that life isn’t like your fairy tales. The world is a cruel place. And you’ll learn that even if it hurts! Magic does not exist…not for me or anyone.” This is a tragic woman who’s tried to conform to society’s expectations of her by being beautiful, soft-spoken, and proper, but she has still not been afforded a decent life with even a meager offering of happiness.

Lastly, we have Mercedes, the housemaid rebel spy made of steel.

My…effing…hero…

Mercedes has infiltrated The Captain’s base, feeding information, supplies, and letters to a secret rebel camp in the forest. She and Ofelia form a bond where Mercedes is at once a maternal figure and a co-conspirator. Despite reproaching herself for the cowardice of her silence, Mercedes suffers the indignities The Captain inflicts upon her without complaint because she is a guerrilla soldier, fighting against a tyrannical political regime with nothing but her wits and her small, dull kitchen knife.

When Mercedes is discovered, The Captain ties her up in the storeroom, preparing to torture her. He insists all his guards leave him to the task, sneering, “For God’s sake, she’s just a woman.” Subtly, Mercedes warns him of his grave underestimation of her, “That’s what you always thought. That’s why I was able to get away with it. I was invisible to you.” The Captain continues to disregard her, and before he realizes it, she’s escaped using her dull kitchen knife to cut the ropes and to stab him repeatedly. When he is at her mercy, she says, “I’m not some old man! I’m not some wounded prisoner! Sonofabitch! Sonofabitch! Don’t you dare touch the girl! You won’t be the first pig I’ve gutted!” She fish hooks him, permanently disfiguring his face.

“You won’t be the first pig I’ve gutted!” – Mercedes the Supreme Figure of Badassery

All there is to say is, “Wow.” This pivotal scene shows Mercedes as full of strength, compassion, and unshakable resolve. She asserts her power as a woman, defying not only the gender binary that subjugates women, but defying her class and the military state authoritarian structure as well. She tells The Captain that women aren’t weak like old men or wounded prisoners, and she even cites the power her trade as a kitchen maid has given her before viscerally showing him that power. Even in the height of her rage, Mercedes is still thinking of the welfare of Ofelia, who is her friend, surrogate child, and ally.

The way Mercedes wields her power is starkly contrasted with the way in which the patriarchal figure of The Captain wields his. All three women have a more complex world view than The Captain. Even Carmen who seeks love in the unlikeliest of places because she is full of naive trust appreciates that emotional well-being is of paramount importance. Though Ofelia is only a lost child caught between harsh reality and dark fantasy, even she recognizes the imperative of morality and self-sacrifice when faced with the choice: do evil to gain a reward or do good and lose everything. All three women are flawed, multifaceted characterizations of unique women in a situation made terrible by an oppressive patriarchal force as represented by Captain Vidal. Though the three could be woodenly interpreted as mother, maiden, and child, their individual depth coupled with their oftentimes unexpected strength and clarity give them value in a feminist reading of Pan’s Labyrinth. As feminists, we don’t ask for idealized portrayals of feminist heroines; we ask for complexity, realistic representations of women, and a critical approach to the patriarchal paradigm. Pan’s Labyrinth gives us all that and more.

2013 Pop-Culture Resolutions

Written by Max Thornton.

I have a confession to make:

Last year, I only went to the movies a dozen times, and only 7 of those were 2012 releases.

That is the least time I have spent at the movies in any year since I started going to the movies. There are a few reasons for this tragic failure of mine:

I’m a grad student, so I don’t have much free time.
I’m a grad student, so I don’t have much spare money.
After a blissful six-month stint working in a cinema in 2011 and taking full advantage of my comps, I am still a little resistant to the prospect of having to pay to go to the movies.
I no longer live in London, where there is a glorious wealth of theaters screening any and every movie you could want to see. All of four movie theaters exist within walking distance of me now, and most of them have a pretty unexciting selection of films most of the time.

The biggest reason, though, is my general sense of disillusionment with Hollywood as a whole. I’m not sure if this is because the past year or two offered genuinely fewer interesting movies than previous years, or because inevitably a sense of ennui sets in after a while. For example, I thought The Master was okay, but it didn’t blow me away like There Will Be Blood did in 2007. Is this because The Master is an inferior film, or because, with five more years of film-watching behind me, I am just bored to death of movies about white dudes talking about stuff?

To be honest, 2013 doesn’t look much better than 2012 when it comes to movies that grab my attention. A cursory glance over the list of forthcoming releases fills me with despondence. I want to see Zero Dark Thirty, but I’m disturbed by reports that it’s naked CIA propaganda. I’ll see the Evil Dead remake, though my expectations are lowered with every advance word that trickle out. There won’t be any escape from seeing Star Trek: Into Skegness (British joke!). Just about the only 2013 movie I have unmitigated, childlike excitement for is Pacific Rim. Giant robots, giant sea monsters, Guillermo del Toro, and Idris Elba are four of my favorite things, and I can only hope and pray that the combination will be as marvelous as I’m anticipating.

I can’t be the only one who would switch teams for this dude in a heartbeat, right?

The thing about being a grouchy griping curmudgeon, though, is that it gets old fast. I want to like things. I want to get excited about upcoming movies. Salivating over a giant-robots-versus-sea-beasties movie is way more fun than shitting all over the latest crop of derivative, kyriarchal tedium. I’m not going to quit fighting the good fight, but I am going to change my focus a little. Here are my pop-culture resolutions for 2013:

I will see more movies alone.

Last week, I went to the movies alone for the first time in eighteen months. It was FANTASTIC. I used to go to the cinema alone all the time, back when I was a fresher in university trying to escape roommate troubles, and I’d forgotten just how brilliant it is. Something about sitting in a darkened auditorium with a group of strangers, never speaking to each other but sharing the cognitive experience onscreen, is just delightful to me.

I’m certain I get this exact expression when I see a good movie alone.

I will seek out more foreign and independent films.

It was so easy when I lived in London. I had maybe half a dozen favorite cinemas, scattered all around central London; anything that got any kind of UK release was guaranteed to be screening somewhere nearby. In 2012, shamefully enough, I didn’t see a single foreign-language film. Not one. I haven’t even seen Les Misérables yet, and I’m pretty sure the title and character names are the only French things about that movie. I pledge to make more of an effort this year. Hollywood might be boring me silly, but there must be interesting things going on elsewhere in the world.

I will not be ungrateful about Community, no matter what happens.

When showrunner Dan Harmon was unceremoniously fired from his brainchild, it seemed like yet another death-knell in the long, slow, painful process of NBC’s gradual euthanizing of my favorite show. I had spent so much energy hoping for Community‘s unlikely season-four renewal that, when it actually happened, it seemed churlish to carp about Harmon’s absence. Some fans are predicting that season four can only be a vortex of suck without his guidance. For now I reserve judgment – though, after being so vocal about my hope for a fourth season, I won’t really feel I can legitimately complain even if I do wind up hating it.

This picture does a lot to assuage my fears.

Anyone else have any pop-culture resolutions? What are you planning to do or not do in 2013?

Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.