Violent Women: The Roundup

Check out all of the posts from our Violent Women Theme Week here.

The Violent Vagina: The Real Horror Behind the Teeth by Belle Artiquez

It’s a conundrum, one that Dawn faces head (or vagina) on.  She is forced to confront these opposing views, and her body reacts the only way it knows how, it bites the penis of society, it castrates the men that want to turn her into something she doesn’t want to be: a sexual young woman.


Salt: A Refreshing Genderless Lens by Cameron Airen

Violent films with a female at their center tend to be viewed differently than violent films with a male lead. When a woman is in this role, it’s controversial. When a man is in the same type of role, it’s a part of who he is as a human being. We’ve become numb to the violence that men engage in onscreen. As a result, we don’t criticize it like we do when a woman is engaging in it.


Shieldmaidens: The Power and Pleasure of Women’s Violence on Vikings by Lisa Bolekaja

In Reel Knockouts: Violent Women in the Movies, Neal King and Martha McCaughey assert that “cultural standards still equate womanhood with kindness and nonviolence, manhood with strength and aggression.” Under the Victorian cult of true womanhood, womanly virtue was supposed to encompass piety, purity, submissiveness, and domesticity. Thank goodness writer/producer Michael Hirst ignored those virtues by creating two dynamic women warriors with his historical drama Vikings.


Emotional Violence, Kink, and The Duke of Burgundy by Rushaa Louise Hamid

In much of feminist literature from the past, kink is seen an act driven by patriarchy, with submissive women reproducing their oppressions in the bedroom and capitulating to gendered norms of women as silent and subservient. Even nowadays as the tide gradually changes, there is still a large amount of ire reserved for those who practice BDSM.


Violence and Morality in The 100 by Esther Nassaris

This act of mercy killing is the first of many moments when Clarke is forced to be violent for the good of others. It not only prompts an important change within herself – she loses her idealistic ways – but it prompts a change in the group dynamics. After this moment, Clarke begins to pull away from the co-leadership she and Bellamy had operated in and moves toward becoming the sole leader of the delinquents.


The Rising “Tough” Women in AMC’s The Walking Dead Season Five by Brooke Bennett

This season seems to present a large change in representational issues by including complex characters of color that we actually know something about and care for, presenting the couple of Aaron and Eric from the Alexandria community and self-pronounced lesbian Tara, and doing away with the innate equation of vagina equals do the laundry while the men go kill all the zombies.


Nine Pretty Great Lesbian Vampire Movies by Sara Century

Almost unfailingly exploitative in its portrayal of queer women, this specific sub-genre of film stands alone in a few ways, not the least of which being that the vampires, while murderous and ultimately doomed, are powerful, lonely women, often living their lives outside of society’s rules.


The Real Mother Russia: Modernising Murder and Betrayal in The Americans by Dan Jordan

The ideological battle between the FBI and KGB is thus a gendered one, as the national characters of Uncle Sam and Mother Russia are pitted against each other on a more even world stage.


Monster: A Telling of the Real Life Consequences for Violent Women by Danika Kimball

Throughout her life, Wuornos experienced horrific instances of gendered abuse, which eventually lead to a violent outlash at her unfair circumstances. Monster vividly documents the life of a woman whose experiences under a dominant patriarchal culture racked with abuse, poverty, and desperation led to a life of crime, imprisonment, and eventually death.


Stoker–Family Secrets, Frozen Bodies, and Female Orgasms by Julie Mills

Her uncle’s imposing presence has awakened in her at the same time a lust for bloodshed and an intense sexual desire, and she promptly begins to experiment and seek out means with which to satisfy both.


Sons of Anarchy: Female Violence, Feminist Care by Leigh Kolb

At the end of season 6, Gemma violently clashes the spheres of power. She’s in the kitchen. She’s using an iron, and a carving fork. Using tools of the feminine sphere, she brutally murders Tara, because she fears that Tara is about to take control and dismantle the club—the life, the style of mothering and living—that she brought home with her so many years ago.


What’s in a Name: Anxiety About Violent Women in Monster, Teeth, and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Colleen Clemens

The first college course I ever developed focuses on women and violence.  Stemming from my interest in women who enact violence on and off the page, I wanted to ask students to think about our perceptions of women as “naturally” peaceful.


Hard Candy: The Razor Blade Hidden in an Apple-Cheeked Confection by Emma Kat Richardson

Hogtying and drugging Jeff is only the tip of Hayley’s sadistic iceberg: over the course of the next several hours, she subjects him to a series of tortures more at home in Guantanamo Bay than a sleepy suburban neighborhood, including spraying his screaming mouth with chemicals, temporarily suffocating him with cellophane, and attacking him with a taser in the shower.


High Tension: Rethinking Female Sexuality and Subjectivity Through Violence by Laura Minor

Rather than pander to the male gaze, Aja decides to reject these scopophilic pleasures in favour of championing female subjectivity, but he also chooses to reject heteronormativity by having the lesbian desires of Marie drive the plot of the film. Interestingly, it is these desires and subjective experiences that both initiate the use of violence and intensify the representation of violence throughout.


“It is not fitting for her to be so manly and terrifying”: Catharsis and Female Chaos in Pasolini’s Medea by Brigit McCone

Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1969 film Medea was created in the aftermath of Italian fascism, another masculine cult of personal self-sacrifice in the interests of the state. Utilizing the operatic charisma of the legendary Maria Callas in a non-singing role, he harnesses the pitiless woman as an agent of chaos, rebelling against the dictates of the masculine state that urges her husband to discard her, in favor of a politically advantageous match.


Domestic Terrorism: Feminized Violence in Misery by Tessa Racked

Annie is a human being, dangerous not because of an evil supernatural force, but rather a severe and untreated mental illness. Although Annie is not given an official diagnosis in the film or the novel, an interview with a forensic psychologist on the special edition DVD characterizes her as displaying symptoms of several different conditions, including borderline personality disorder (BPD).


Girlhood: Observed But Not Seen by Ren Jender

Girlhood starts on a peak note: a slow-motion scene of what looks like Black men playing American tackle football on a field at night, wearing helmets, shoulder pads and mouth guards, so we don’t realize–until we notice the players’ breasts under their uniforms–that they are all girls.


Patty Jenkins’ Monster: Shouldering the Double Burden of Masculinity and Femininity by Katherine Parker-Hay

In this narrative we see masculinity float free from any ties to the male body, femininity float free from any easy connection to frailness – we see them meet in the one body of this working class woman to excruciating effect.


Feminist Fangs: The Activist Symbolism of Violent Vampire Women by Melissa-Kelly Franklin

The acts of violence by the female protagonists are terrifying, swift, and socially subversive. They target misogynistic representatives of the patriarchal society that oppresses and silences women, taking them out one by one.


Slashing Gender Assumptions: The Female Killer, Unmasked by Kate Blair

To a certain extent, the reveal of woman as killer in both films comes across as a “gotcha” moment. After an hour or so of being scared out of your wits, it’s both surprising and puzzling to see a woman emerge as the killer. In the real world, most documented violent crimes are committed by men, but in a film, where anything can happen, there’s no reason to make this assumption.


“Did I Step on Your Moment?” The Seductive and Psychological Violence of Female Superheroes by Mary Iannone

This style of fighting codes our female superheroes as half menacing and half attractive – we are meant to be afraid of them, but also enticed by them. Their violence is inextricably linked to their sexuality.


Nobody Puts Susan Cooper in the Basement: Melissa McCarthy and Skillful, Competent Violence in Film by Laura Power

As McCarthy tousles with her own nemesis in the kitchen fight, Feig uses slow motion to let us savor the violence and bird’s eye shots to let us see the controlled swings of Cooper’s arms and legs as she fights. The violence is not slapstick. The violence is not played for laughs. The violence is just flat-out cinematically terrific.


“She Called Them Anti-Seed”: How the Women of Mad Max: Fury Road Divorce Violence from Strength by Cate Young

In Mad Max: Fury Road the “strong female characters” are notable specifically for their aversion to violence. The film portrays its women as emotionally strong people who engage in violence only in self-defense, and only against the system that oppresses them.


Sugar, Spice, and Things Not Nice: Violent Girlhood in Violet & Daisy by Caroline Madden

The character of Daisy personifies the film’s juxtaposition of violence and girlhood. Daisy loves cute animals and doesn’t understand Violet’s dirty jokes. The twist is even that she has not really killed anyone, thus remaining innocent of all crimes. The opening scene displays the most daring oppositional iconography — the young girls dress as nuns, the ultimate image of pure goodness, while having a shoot ‘em up with a gang.


Children: The Great Qualifier of Female Violence by Katherine Fusciardi

True, the rape revenge trope has been put at bay, but there is still a gender issue behind the remaining motivation. It focuses around the assumption of maternity being the all-encompassing passion. Until female characters can be violent for reasons that have nothing to do with their womanhood, there still isn’t complete equality in media.


How Spring Breakers Ungenders the Erotic and Transformative Power of Violence by Emma Houxbois

The girls, driven by desperation to escape their mundane lives to take part in Spring Break, scheme a robbery of the local chicken shack to raise the necessary funds to get there. To psyche themselves up for the crime, they exhort each other to pretend it’s a video game, to detach themselves and dehumanize their victims in a hurried pep talk to the same end as the grueling boot camp scenes sequences in Full Metal Jacket.


Mad Max: Fury Road: Violence Helps Our Heroines Have a Lovely Day by Sophie Hall

Furiosa, stabbed and wounded yet still persistent, takes down the main villain Immortan Joe. “Remember me?” Furiosa growls just before ripping his breathing apparatus–and half of his face–clean off. That quip may seem like your average cool one-liner, but for me it is so much more than that. It’s Furiosa, our female protagonist, who takes out the bad guy. Not Max. Not Nux, or any other male character. Her.


Puberty and the Creation of a Monster: Ginger Snaps by Kelly Piercy

Ginger, despite morphing into a werewolf, becomes our protagonist killer in a very human way, and the complexity of her journey is a cinematic rarity. A large part of its appeal is the addictive excitement-and-relief cocktail that comes with seeing your experiences reflected on screen–to see menstruation from a menstruating perspective. Who wouldn’t see want to see the violence of their PMS daydreams being played out?


When Violence Is Excusable: Regina Mills and the Twisted Morality of Once Upon a Time by Emma Thomas

In the past, Regina’s path to control is lined with dark magic. Dark magic is fueled by her anger, and the two intersect endlessly until it is hard to tell whether Regina is controlling the anger, or the anger is controlling her. What is definitive is that the more her power grows the more violent she becomes. With the only person who offered her a loving future dead, there is no one to rein her in.


Timorous Killers: The Breach of Shyness in Polanski’s Repulsion by Johanna Mackin

The eye we see in the film’s opening credits belongs to Carol and encapsulates her relationship to the internal and external worlds. To outside observers, Carol’s large, doe-like eyes are a signifier of her feminine allure, but, as is made palpable to the viewer, they also house her intense fear and constitute a deceptive barrier against the malignant traumas that disturb her internal world.


Death of the (Male) Author: Feminist Violence in Lynne Ramsay’s Morvern Callar by Sarah Smyth

How significant it is, then, that Ramsay changes the ending from the novel where Morvern discovers she’s pregnant to instead give her a narrative of hopeful escape and adventure. Through the economic, cultural and narrative capitals gained from the violence enacted on the male author both inside and outside of the text, the female protagonist is offered a radical feminist alternative. Rather than by trapped by her class position, socio-economic position, job possibilities or pregnancy, Morvern is, instead, offered freedom, autonomy, and authority.


TV and Classic Literature: Is The 100 like Lord of the Flies? by Rowan Ellis

On the contrary, Octavia moves away from the explicit sexuality of her role in the pilot, and although her initial training is linked to Lincoln, she gravitates toward a warrior’s life to gain the respect of Indra. Although some critics have seen this as a drastic change in her characterisation, looking back at her first scene in the pilot, where she is held back by Bellamy while trying to attack the others for repeating rumours about her, it feels more like a development.


The Killer in/and the Girl: Alexandre Aja’s High Tension by Rebecca Willoughby

In High Tension, we have le tueur—the Killer—in place of the Monster, who in Shelley’s novel can be read as Victor Frankenstein’s doppelganger, that most famous of psychological devices used to illustrate the violence with which the repressed returns, doing all of the things the typical, well-socialized individual could never dream of doing. But where Victor utilizes the Monster to reject society’s expectations of him (including a traditional, heterosexual union with his adopted sister, Elizabeth), High Tension’s Marie creates le tueur because her desires do not fit within the normative world of the film.


From Ginger Snaps to Jennifer’s Body: The Contamination of Violent Women by Julia Patt

Thematically, Jennifer’s Body mirrors Ginger Snaps in many respects: the disruption of suburban or small town life, the intersection between female sexuality and violence, the close relationship between two teen girls at the films’ centers, and—perhaps most strikingly—the contagious nature of violence in women.


The Killer in/and the Girl: Alexandre Aja’s ‘High Tension’

But where Victor utilizes the Monster to reject society’s expectations of him (including a traditional, heterosexual union with his adopted sister, Elizabeth), ‘High Tension’s Marie creates le tueur because her desires do not fit within the normative world of the film.

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This guest post by Rebecca Willoughby appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.


Tensions are high between Alex and Marie, the two college-age women at the center of Alexandre Aja’s 2003 film, High Tension.

Violent women in films are seen mostly in two ways: the crazy villainess, characterized as an uncontrollable and unreasonable bitch who wreaks heaps of havoc on unsuspecting (if not always undeserving) folks in her path, and the strong, take-no-prisoners heroine who populates some action and science-fiction genre films, and who—as in the classic case of the Alien franchise’s leading lady, Ellen Ripley—reclaims the roles of motherhood and femininity, showing that it is completely possible for those qualities to exist in the same person.

High Tension is a confusing film when contextualized in these terms. Marie, with whom the viewer spends the most time, seems heroic and smart. Her friend Alex, on the other hand, is more traditional and mostly submissive: she retreats to the bosom of her family in rural France to study for exams with Marie, adores her younger brother and seems at ease with the unexciting pace of country living. Later, she appears to capitulate completely to the psycho-killer who invades her family’s home, while resourceful Marie searches for misplaced cordless telephones and succeeds in eluding the killer completely. Viewers see Marie as the Ripley-esque heroine as she endeavors throughout this brisk 90-minute film to save her friend from the clutches of a sadistic sexual predator, one who is shown early in the film to enjoy getting “head” from women’s decapitated heads. Nice pun, writers.

At least, that’s what you think until you get to the end. In the final few minutes, viewers learn that Marie is, in fact, the killer, who has butchered Alex’s family and abducted her due to a frighteningly intense girl crush. Alas. Marie’s close-cropped hair, healthy attitude toward masturbation, and ingenious strategies are now corrupted, since it’s clear that the filmmakers intended for her to be the villain. Not just a violent woman, but a woman who so deeply represses her desires that they literally manifest themselves as an ugly, dirty, stocky man in mechanic’s overalls, who is capable of brutally murdering an entire family to eliminate any signifiers of the world in which she feels…well, not herself.

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This story has been told before. Aja and co-writer Gregory Levasseur riff heavily on another case of repression leading to violence: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. In High Tension, we have le tueur—the Killer—in place of the Monster, who in Shelley’s novel can be read as Victor Frankenstein’s doppelganger, that most famous of psychological devices used to illustrate the violence with which the repressed returns, doing all of the things the typical, well-socialized individual could never dream of doing. But where Victor utilizes the Monster to reject society’s expectations of him (including a traditional, heterosexual union with his adopted sister, Elizabeth), High Tension’s Marie creates le tueur because her desires do not fit within the normative world of the film.

The film’s tagline, “Hearts will bleed,” is a clear nod to this idea. This horror film is, at its core, a love story. Marie is somewhat of a party girl, encouraging her academically talented friend Alex to have a good time, but who also seems consistently left in the dust in favor of Alex’s male sexual conquests. Furthermore, Alex chastises Marie for “acting that way every time a guy tries to talk to you,” and suggesting that Marie will “end up alone” if she does not conform to stereotypical sexual and gender norms. The surroundings in which Alex hurls these ideas at Marie are also stridently traditional: the house in the country, where viewers see Mom hanging up laundry and Dad toiling in an at-home office opposite a glimmering computer screen. The farmhouse is pastoral Southern France in a microcosm—“like a doll’s house,” Marie asserts. Overtly perfect and totally unreal, at least in Marie’s experience.

The terribly hyperbolic rape van that le tueur pilots, and into which Alex is stashed after Marie/Le tueur murders Alex’s family is equally unrealistic, however. It’s laughable that Marie describes it only as “an old rusty truck” when she notifies the police about le tueur’s actions—before she and le tueur are explicitly linked—because it’s so much more. It’s clearly a murder-house on wheels, a Gothicized antique of a vehicle, a faded logo peeling off the side, and an ironic “head” trailer hitch blatantly displayed for all to see. Inside, le tueur has seemingly stashed many a female victim, whose pictures are pasted to the rearview mirror and whose blood cakes the walls and ceiling of the van’s rear compartment. “But those girls were alone,” Marie says as she tries to convince Alex they can escape the van. “There are two of us.” Indeed.

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Though at the time of the film’s release, viewers might have been able to see some redeeming aspect in the pure fact of Marie’s true sexuality being represented (at least in the end) on screen, it’s impossible to see this film as progressive. While there’s no explicit representation of heteronormative desire on screen, Alex’s parents, her discussion of her own male partners, and her ultimate rejection of Marie serve this purpose. As such, the family’s dispatch at Marie’s hands illustrates the film’s destructive take on non-normative sexual preference. They literally can’t exist in the same space, even at the rural margins of society. Marie is in the end found to be monstrous, confined to an institution in handcuffs.

And yet. In those last moments, can viewers experience some sympathy for Marie? Imprisoned in an asylum and whispering “I won’t let anyone come between us anymore” over and over, Marie senses Alex on the other side of a two-way mirror and reaches for her. But rather than being tender, this movement is treated as the final, frightening jump-scare of the movie. Marie and her monstrous desire: condemned. Is this a cautionary tale, then? A warning, detailing just how deeply wrong it is for society to impose and police strict ideals of sexuality?

And those Frankensteinian scars on Marie’s face in those final shots, from her “rough with love” ordeal? Coincidence? I think not.

 


Rebecca L. Willoughby holds a Ph.D. in English and Film Studies from Lehigh University. She writes most frequently on horror films and melodramas, and is currently Visiting Assistant Professor at Susquehanna University in Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania.  

 

‘High Tension’: Rethinking Female Sexuality and Subjectivity Through Violence

Rather than pander to the male gaze, Aja decides to reject these scopophilic pleasures in favour of championing female subjectivity, but he also chooses to reject heteronormativity by having the lesbian desires of Marie drive the plot of the film. Interestingly, it is these desires and subjective experiences that both initiate the use of violence and intensify the representation of violence throughout.


This guest post by Laura Minor appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.


Named one of TIME magazine’s “10 most ridiculously violent films” [1], Alexandre Aja’s 2003 slasher High Tension (originally titled Haute Tension) is a visceral delight, a horrific spectacle of generic excess. Yet with the film’s synopsis describing the leading character, Marie, as a “beautiful young Frenchwoman,” High Tension could have easily been seen in GQ’s article “The 25 Sexiest Violent Women in Film” [2]. Rather than pander to the male gaze, Aja decides to reject these scopophilic pleasures in favour of championing female subjectivity, but he also chooses to reject heteronormativity by having the lesbian desires of Marie drive the plot of the film. Interestingly, it is these desires and subjective experiences that both initiate the use of violence and intensify the representation of violence throughout.

Before examining the film’s treatment of gender, sexuality and violence, however, its basic narrative needs to be understood. High Tension revolves around Marie (Cécile De France) and Alex (Maïwenn Besco), two college students who travel to Alex’s parents’ farmhouse in the French countryside so that they can relax and study in peace. After arriving at the farmhouse and settling down for the night, Marie begins masturbating in bed, presumably fantasising about Alex after she inadvertently spies on her in the shower. The killer arrives simultaneously and begins brutally massacring Alex’s family without reason. He then abducts Alex after blinding her, and Marie consequently emerges as the Final Girl, the protagonist who must save the day. What ensues is a cat-and-mouse chase, with the killer eventually hunting down Marie for the archetypal finale – a one-on-one confrontation between the protagonist and antagonist. However, when Marie ends the killer’s life, it is revealed that she is in fact the killer, thereby rupturing the classical protagonist/antagonist relationship.

Aja’s ending has received strong, negative criticism for its twist, but the purpose of this ending is to not merely shock. Of course, if we read it through a conservative lens, then Marie’s transgressions serve to maintain and perpetuate heterosexist discourse, as the lesbian protagonist is revealed to be the monster; she is the outsider who has destroyed the nuclear family. Indeed according to Harry M. Benshoff,

both movie monsters and homosexuals have existed chiefly in shadowy closets and when they do emerge from these proscribed places into the sunlit world they cause panic and fear. Their closets uphold and reinforce binaries of gender and sexuality that structure Western thought. To create a broad analogy, monster is to “normality” as homosexual is to heterosexual [3].

While this has been true for past representations, Marie’s psychotic creation of “Le Tueur” (meaning “The Killer” in English) complicates the idea that she is the tangible monster. This unnamed, unidentifiable man is the one who has committed cinematic sadism, and although the monster is a manifestation of Marie’s latent desires, he also personifies the fear and anger she feels about her own sexuality. This is implied at the beginning of the film through dialogue and lighting – when Marie and Alex arrive at the farmhouse, Alex tells Marie she’ll “end up an old maid” because of her lack of interest in men. Understandably, Marie reacts with dejection. Her face is deliberately shadowed by the darkness outside as she solemnly says “Don’t start with that”. Indeed though subtle, it is obvious that Alex’s ingrained, societal beliefs have affected her deeply, the feeling that she is an outcast, that she should settle down and find a nice husband. To have her best friend and love interest speak in such a way does not excuse murder (that much is obvious), but it could explain why Marie constructs an individual that represents heteronormativity (a white, heterosexual middle-aged man) committing these violent acts instead.

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This fabricated part of her psyche, in some ways, conforms to Halberstam’s notion of “imagined violence,” which is defined as “the fantasy of unsanctioned eruptions of aggression” [4]. More specifically, Halberstam argues that “imagined violence does not advocate lesbian or female aggression but it might complicate an assumed relationship between women and passivity or feminism and pacifism” [4]. To imagine the possibility of female violence is to create a new source of pleasure for women, as resistance on-screen is a reaction against gender/sexuality-based prejudices. High Tension, however, takes this level of imagination to a disturbed and distorted level, as Marie/Le Tueur brutally kill an innocent family. Yet it could be argued that this (fe)male violence symbolises Marie’s anger, or more specifically, Marie’s inability to control the rage she feels about heteronormativity upholding “traditional family values” (these being strictly defined gender roles and heterosexuality). After all, she cannot control this part of her consciousness, as she desires to kill this part of her consciousness and rescue Alex.

The “imagined violence” against the heteronormative male within is a significant, internal battle that culminates in Marie defeating Le Tueur with a fence post covered in barbed wire. She uses this aggressive, phallic symbol to “challenge powerful white heterosexual masculinity and create a cultural coalition of postmodern terror” [4], the most significant aspect of “imagined violence.” Of course, such a reading is not so simple in a film that constructs a schizophrenic narrative and a schizophrenic character, but High Tension is aware of its supposed inconsistencies, which again can be seen in its ending. Before Le Tueur’s death, he wields his chainsaw in an attempt to kill Alex, only for his weapon to be replaced by Marie’s sweet and soft kiss. The act of (fe)male violence and gentleness in this scene unifies the binaries of masculinity and femininity, and therefore complicates the definitions of monstrousness and gender. For this reason, as Joshua Cohen has argued, High Tension “poses somewhat of a problem for the critic interested in allocating monstrosity into a neatly defined category such as masculine or feminine. Rather, High Tension requires a spectator whom assumes that gender is a subject that transcends the limitations of binary oppositions” [5].

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Indeed because Aja has forced us to intimately identify with Marie and then Alex via specific camerawork, these acts of violence are intensified, but so are subtle character movements. The final scene is particularly significant in this regard; when Marie is in a psychiatric hospital, Alex watches her through a one-way mirror and extends her hand to the screen, almost as if she is visiting a lover in prison. Here we are forced to identify with Alex as the camera slowly follows her hand, and when she asks a doctor whether Marie can see her through the mirror, it is clear that she is also asking this question for us, the extra-diegetic spectators. Marie answers this question soon after. No, she cannot see Alex, she can sense her, and by extension she can sense the audience. Her face beams with delight as she opens her arms in a sudden forceful yet loving gesture, and the camera lurches back in horror with Alex, thus forcing us as spectators to mimic these movements. The jerky, violent actions of Marie are therefore ambiguous. Whilst we are initially drawn to her by the placement of Alex’s hand, we are then pushed away by her affection/violence. Perhaps it would be reading too much into the ending to view Alex’s hand gesture as an act of repressed sexuality, but it is interesting that Alex, now the audience surrogate, is both drawn to and disgusted by Marie’s affectionate/violent disposition. In this regard, High Tension offers no concrete resolution as to how we should view the protagonist. Instead, it offers multiple readings of gender, sexuality, and violence that typify our contemporary, heterogeneous culture. Indeed despite the monstrous actions of Marie, underneath the surface, Alex and the audience know that she cannot be simplistically defined – it is why we have returned to her at the hospital.

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Overall, to define High Tension as conservative would be problematic, as we would have to ignore the ways in which it has transcended stereotypical ideals of gender and sexuality through acts of violence, whether these acts be blatant (such as the aggressive methods of murder) or subtle (such as the sudden erratic movements of Marie). It is certainly clear that the narrative does not advocate male or familial genocide as a strategy for achieving women’s emancipation. If anything, the film seeks to place itself in-between the rich, textured spaces of female subjectivity and identity, spaces that are not always straightforward, rational or prototypical.


Footnotes

[1] Sanburn, Josh. “Top 10 Ridiculously Violent Movies.” TIME., September 2, 2010. http://entertainment.time.com/2010/09/03/top-10-ridiculously-violent-movies/.

[2] “The 25 Sexiest Violent Women in Film”. GQ., June 30, 2009. http://www.gq.com/gallery/list-sexy-women-movies-violent-angelina-jolie-halle-berry-jessica-alba-slideshow.

[3] Benshoff, Harry M (1997). Monsters in the Closet: Homosexuality and the Horror Film. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press.

[4] Halberstam, Judith (1993). ‘Imagined Violence/Queer Violence: Representations of Rage and Resistance’. Social Text 37, pp.187-201.

[5] Cohen, Joshua. ‘‘’Will You Still Love Me in the Morning?’: Gender Representation and Monstrosity in Alexandre Aja’s High Tension.” Fear, Horror, and Terror, 2nd Global Conference. Oxford: United Kingdom, 2008. Print.


Laura Minor is currently undertaking a Master’s in Film and Television Studies. She runs a blog at lrjdmnr.wordpress.com where she discusses feminist media studies, film/television aesthetics and genre theory.