Tag: Jenny Lapekas

“We Stick Together”: Rebellion, Female Solidarity, and Girl Crushes in ‘Foxfire’

In the spirit of ‘Boys on the Side,’ along with a dose of teen angst, ‘Foxfire’ is perhaps the most bad ass chick flick ever. Many Angelina Jolie fans are not aware of this 1996 phenomenon, where Angie makes a name for herself as a rebellious free spirit who changes the lives of four young women in New York. Based on the Joyce Carol Oates novel by the same name, ‘Foxfire’ is the epitome of girl power and female friendship, a pleasant departure from the competition and spitefulness often portrayed between women characters on the big screen (see ‘Bride Wars’ and ‘Just Go with It’). However, it does seem that Hollywood is catching on as of late, and producing films that cater to a more progressive viewership (see ‘Bridesmaids’ and ‘The Other Woman’). When I first saw ‘Foxfire’ around 16 years old, I stole the VHS copy from the video store where I worked at the time.

This post by Jenny Lapekas appears as part of our theme week on Female Friendship.

In the spirit of Boys on the Side, along with a dose of teen angst, Foxfire is perhaps the most bad ass chick flick ever.  Many Angelina Jolie fans are not aware of this 1996 phenomenon, where Angie makes a name for herself as a rebellious free spirit who changes the lives of four young women in New York.  Based on the Joyce Carol Oates novel by the same name, Foxfire is the epitome of girl power and female friendship, a pleasant departure from the competition and spitefulness often portrayed between women characters on the big screen (see Bride Wars and Just Go with It).  However, it does seem that Hollywood is catching on as of late, and producing films that cater to a more progressive viewership (see Bridesmaids and The Other Woman).  When I first saw Foxfire around 16 years old, I stole the VHS copy from the video store where I worked at the time.

You don’t want to mess with these gals.
You don’t want to mess with these gals.

 

Angelina Jolie’s shaggy hair and tomboy style in the film, along with her portrayal of the rebellious Legs Sadovsky, play with gender expectations, challenging our assumptions pertaining to clothing, gait, etc.  Legs’ biker boots and leather jacket highlight the general heteronormative tendency to find discomfort in these roles and depictions.  An androgynous drifter, Legs oozes sex appeal and promotes the questioning of authority.  She teaches the girls to own their happiness, to correct the injustices they encounter, and to assert themselves to the men who think themselves superior to women.  Legs’ appearance in Foxfire is paramount; she’s even mistaken for a boy when she breaks into the local high school.  A security guard yells, “Young man, stop when I’m talking to you.”  We see this confusion repeat itself when Goldie’s mother tells her daughter, “There’s a girl…or whatever…here to see you.”

How can we resist developing a girl crush on Angie in this role?
How can we resist developing a girl crush on Angie in this role?

 

The film’s subplot involves a romance of sorts between artist Maddy and Legs, the mysterious stranger, while Maddy feels a large distance growing between her and her boyfriend (a young Peter Facinelli from the Twilight saga).  The intensity of the “girl-crush” shared between Maddy and Legs is akin to that of Thelma and Louise; while we come to understand that Legs is gay, Maddy’s platonic love is enough for the troubled runaway.  Legs also assures Maddy after sleeping on her floor one rainy night, “Don’t worry, you’re not my type.”  Similar to my discussion of the reunion between Miranda and Steve in Sex and the City: the Movie, the two young women coming together on a bridge is heavy with symbolism, especially when Legs climbs to the top and dances while Maddy looks on in horror and professes that she’s afraid of heights:  a nice precursor for the unfolding narrative, which centers on Legs guiding the girls and easing their fears, especially those associated with female adolescence and gaining new insight into their surroundings and how they fit into their environment.

This scene may not be aware of itself as being set up as another Romeo and Juliet visual, but we realize perhaps Legs is a better suitor than Maddy’s boyfriend, whose male privilege hinders his understanding of what Maddy needs.
While this scene may not be aware of itself as being set up as a nice Romeo and Juliet visual,  we realize perhaps Legs is a better suitor than Maddy’s boyfriend, whose male privilege hinders his understanding of what Maddy needs.

 

In a somber and almost zen-like scene involving Maddy and Legs, they profess their love for one another outside the abandoned home the gang has claimed as their own.  Maddy says, “If I told you I loved you, would you take it the wrong way?”  Obviously, while Maddy doesn’t want Legs to think she’s in love with her, she wants to make clear that the two have bonded for life and are now inextricably linked in sisterhood.  Maddy indirectly asks if Legs would take her with when she decides to move on, and Legs hints that Maddy may not be prepared for her nomadic lifestyle.  The platonic romance shared by both young women culminates in tears and heartache when Legs must inevitably leave.

Almost as if to kiss Legs, Maddy tenderly touches her face atop the gang’s house.
Almost as if to kiss Legs, Maddy tenderly touches her face atop the gang’s house.

 

Legs is the glue that binds these young women, and she literally appears from nowhere.  Her entrances are consistently memorable:  she initially meets Maddy as she’s trespassing on school property, she climbs to Maddy’s window asking for refuge from the rain (another Romeo and Juliet moment), and eventually takes off for nowhere, leaving the girls stupefied and yet more lucid than ever.  Legs is something that happens to these girls, a force of nature, a breath of fresh air.  When she tells Maddy that she was thrown out of her old school “for thinking for herself,” we can safely assume it was just that–refusing to conform to the standards of others.  The unlikely friendship that forms amongst this diverse group of girls clarifies the idea that this gang dynamic has found them, not the other way around; the pressed need for the collective feminine is what brings the girls together, rather than some vendetta against men.

Although Legs tattoos each of the girls in honor of their time together, they know they won't need scars to remember Legs.
Although Legs tattoos each of the girls in honor of their time together, they know they won’t need scars to remember Legs.

 

Legs sports a tattoo that reads “Audrey”:  her mother, who was killed in a drunk driving accident, and we clearly see in the film’s final scenes that Legs suffers from some serious daddy issues, when she angrily announces that “fathers mean nothing.”  Delving briefly into Legs’ painful past, we discover that she never knew her father.  The quickly maturing Rita explains to Legs, “This isn’t about you.”  Each of the girls has their own set of issues within the film:  Rita is being sexually molested by her scumbag biology teacher, Mr. Buttinger, Goldie is a drug addict whose father beats her, Violet is dubbed a “slut,” by the school’s stuck-up cheerleaders, and Maddy struggles to balance school, her photography, and her boyfriend, who is dumbfounded by Legs’ influence on his typically well-behaved girlfriend.

After the girls beat up Buttinger, Legs warns him to think before inappropriately touching any more female students.
After the girls beat up Buttinger, Legs warns him to think before inappropriately touching any more female students.

 

In an especially significant scene, the football players from school who continually harass the girls attempt to abduct Maddy by forcing her into a van.  The confrontations between the groups progressively escalate throughout the movie, and climax after Coach Buttinger is apparently fired for sexually harassing several female students.  Legs shows up donning a switchblade and orders the boys to let her friend go.  Of course, the pair steal the van and pick up their girlfriends on a high speed cruise to nowhere, which ends in an exciting police chase and Legs losing control and crashing, a metaphor for the gang’s imminent downfall.  The threat of sexual assault dissolved by a female ally, followed by police pursuit and a car crash has a lovely Thelma & Louise quality, as well.  The motivation here is to avoid being swept up in a misogynistic culture of victim-blaming.  What’s interesting about this scene is that another girl from school, who’s in cahoots with these sleazy guys, actually lures Maddy to the waiting group of boys, knowing what’s to come.  Meanwhile, Maddy tells Cyndi that she’d escort any girl somewhere who doesn’t feel safe, highlighting the betrayal at work here.  Cyndi, the outsider, exploits Maddy’s feminist sensibilities, her unspoken drive for female solidarity and the resistance of male violence to fulfill a violent, misogynist agenda and put Maddy in harm’s way.  Later, in the van, Goldie excitedly yells, “Maddy almost got raped, and we just stole this car!” as if this is a source of exhilaration or a mark of resiliency.  Perhaps we’d correct her by shifting the blame from the “almost-victim” to her attacker:  “Dana and his boys almost raped Maddy.”

Legs says, “Let her out, you stupid fuck.”
Legs says, “Let her out, you stupid fuck.”

 

Obviously, these are young women just blossoming in their feminist ideals, on the path to realization, and just beginning to question the patriarchal agenda they find themselves a part of in this awkward stage of young adulthood.  It’s in this queer in-between state, straddling womanhood and adolescence, that we find Maddy, Legs, Violet, Goldie, and Rita, on the cusp of articulating their justified outrage.  We may also question, how does one almost get raped?  While the girls of Foxfire are young and somewhat inexperienced, with Legs’ help, they quickly obtain this sort of unpleasant, universal knowledge that males can perpetrate sexual violence in order to “put women in their place.”  Dana announces, “You girls are getting a little big for yourselves.”  We can’t have that.  Women who grow, gain confidence, and challenge sexist and oppressive norms can make waves and upset lots of people.  While the girls are initially hesitant in trying to find their way and make sense of their lives, Legs is the powerful catalyst for this transition from the young and feminine to the wise and feminist.  While the high school jocks attempt to reclaim the power they feel has been threatened or stolen by this group of girls, Legs continues to challenge gender expectations by utilizing violence as well.

Legs tearfully says, “You’re my heart, Maddy.”
As she hitches a ride, Legs tearfully says, “You’re my heart, Maddy.”

 

Not only does this film pass the Bechdel Test with flying colors, it almost feels as if it’s a joke when the girls do manage to discuss men–like the topic is not something they take seriously or that boys rest only on the periphery of their lives.  While Maddy suffers silently in terms of her artistic prowess and boyfriend drama, Rita–seemingly the prudest and most sheltered of the gang–talks casually about masturbation and penis size.  However, it’s important to note that when men do make their way into the conversation, it’s at rare, lighthearted moments when the girls are not guarded or suspicious of the tyrannical and predatory men who seem to surround them.  The penis-size discussion between Rita and Violet, we must admit, is also quite self-serving and objectifying.  Rather than obsess over their appearances or the approval of boys, the girls’ most ecstatic moment is when Violet receives an anonymous note from a younger girl at school, another student Buttinger was harassing who is thankful for what the gang did.  The fact that Violet is so pleased that she could help a friendly stranger who was also a target of the same perverted teacher says a lot about the gang’s goals and identity.

Thanks to Legs, Maddy overcomes her fear of heights.
Thanks to Legs, Maddy overcomes her fear of heights.

 

Maddy and Legs recognize something in one another, and although theirs is not a sexual relationship, it is no doubt intimate and meaningful.  With an amazing soundtrack that includes Wild Strawberries, L7 (wanna fling tampons, anyone?), and Luscious Jackson, and boasting a cast that includes Angelina Jolie and Hedy Burress, Foxfire is undeniably feminist in its message and narrative.  With the help of Legs, the girls find agency, and with it, each other.  Although most of the girls have been failed by men in some way, Legs offers hope in female friendship and lets her sisters know that male-perpetrated violence can be combated with a switchblade and a swift kick to the balls.  Legs arrives like a whirlwind in Maddy’s life and leaves her changed forever.  The lovely ladies of Foxfire will make you want to form a girl gang, dangle off bridges, and break into your old high school’s art room just to stick it to the man.

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Jenny holds a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at a community college in Pennsylvania.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  She lives with two naughty chihuahuas.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

When is This Movie Going to End? or, Extended Adolescence and Meta Moments in ‘Freddy Got Fingered’

I know the nineties are over, but I’m still a fan of Tom Green and his eccentric brand of humor. When critics and filmgoers dismiss ‘Freddie Got Fingered,’ I feel it’s for the wrong reasons; to pass the movie off as a cinematic abortion of sorts is narrow thinking. People probably still wonder, “Who gave Tom Green money to make a movie?” I know, it’s like writing a kid a blank check and sending him into a candy store. However, if we’re not receptive enough to uncover the ideas and themes Green presents, and to assess their relevance to Hollywood ideals, celebrity status, and family politics, we need to re-evaluate how we watch film. There’s good stuff to be found in ‘Freddy.’

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

I know the 90s are over, but I’m still a fan of Tom Green and his eccentric brand of humor.  When critics and filmgoers dismiss Freddy Got Fingered, I feel it’s for the wrong reasons; to pass the movie off as a cinematic abortion of sorts is narrow thinking.  People probably still wonder, Who gave Tom Green money to make a movie?  I know, it’s like writing a kid a blank check and sending him into a candy store.  However, if we’re not receptive enough to uncover the ideas and themes Green presents, and to assess their relevance to Hollywood ideals, celebrity status, and family politics, we need to re-evaluate how we watch film.  There’s good stuff to be found in Freddy.

In the trailer for Freddy, Green tells us, “If you like acting, then you’ll like Freddy Got Fingered.”  The film itself works as a commentary on the movie-making process and essentially laughs in its face.  Green’s declaration is meant as a sneer at the generic nature of not only popular film, but the reasons behind that popularity: that many viewers hold low expectations when evaluating movie quality.  The mantra throughout Freddy seems to be “I’m a 28-year-old man”:  Green’s character asserting his maturity to his parents, who are well aware that their baby is still very much a baby at 28 years old.  While his mother would prefer her baby boy to stay at home, Gordy’s father (played by the incomparable Rip Torn) wants to see his son succeed and make something of himself.

When Roger Ebert reviewed this film, he had this to say:  “This movie doesn’t scrape the bottom of the barrel.  The movie isn’t the bottom of the barrel.  This movie isn’t below the bottom of the barrel.  This movie doesn’t deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence with barrels.”  Then why mention it?  It’s clear that Green doesn’t want to be taken seriously.  He spends his time satirizing movie tropes and evading the cinematic qualities that define film as a meaning-making process.  To discuss Freddy alongside Hollywood blockbusters is apples and oranges.

Even the film’s cover–Green mimicking the gesture filmmakers use when describing their creation or cinematic vision–pokes fun at itself.
Even the film’s cover–Green mimicking the gesture filmmakers use when describing their creation or cinematic vision–pokes fun at itself.

 

When we meet Gordy, his placement as an overgrown child is solidified when we watch him laying in bed, describing the absurd backstories that accompany the comics he’s drawn, which are actually quite good and show a great deal of artistic talent.  Gordy’s job at the cheese sandwich factory is a satirical commentary on the struggling artist who works the meaningless, manual labor job while attempting to aspire to something greater in this life.  Gordy’s departure from this job also serves to confirm his authentic identity as an animator.

The comical depiction of extended adolescence, especially in men, is seen often in film (see Step Brothers, Slackers, and Young Adult), yet it rarely seems tackled as a topic for discussion.  Green’s lunatic brand of surrealist humor (see Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! and The Mighty Boosh) and viewers’ not so warm reception of his film are a reflection of people’s desire for logic and the comfort we find in the assurance that gravity still exists each day when we wake.  In an interview on the podcast “The Joe Rogan Experience,” Green even explains that he was trying to make the “stupidest movie ever.”

Green pokes fun at the “feel good” moments we come to expect in films, the moments that inspire us and evoke tears.  We see such a moment when Gordy spontaneously delivers a baby and has a revelatory moment about his life (see Mixed Nuts and Saved!), and again when Betty (Gordy’s love interest) invents a rocket-powered wheelchair.

Signature of Green’s absurd humor, he shows up at a swanky L.A. restaurant to track down bigwig Dave Davidson (Anthony Michael Hall) to see if he can score his own television series based on his drawings, all dressed as an English bobby.
Signature of Green’s absurd humor, he shows up at a swanky L.A. restaurant to track down bigwig Dave Davidson (Anthony Michael Hall) to see if he can score his own television series based on his drawings, all dressed as an English bobby.

 

The head of Radioactive Animation Studio patiently explains to Gordy, “Your drawings are pretty good, but it doesn’t make any sense, OK?  It’s fucking stupid,” which incidentally describes Green’s humor as well as the general theme of Freddy.  We have these moments of raucous laughter, but we can’t explain the bizarre satisfaction we gain from watching Green’s stunts, which includes a fair amount of physical comedy in the same vein as Jackass, such as crashing into people and doors as he awkwardly moves around in the film, very much resembling a clumsy, pubescent boy.  When Davidson tells him that his characters are lame, Gordy pulls out a gun and puts it in his mouth:  more satire relating to the extreme measures artists take when their art goes unrecognized or they fail at becoming rich and successful (see Airheads).

"I'm a loser! I wish I was dead!!!"
“I’m a loser! I wish I was dead!!!”

 

Freddy is a hyperbolic look at the consequences of extended adolescence, and several scenes exemplify this theme, particularly those involving Gordy and his dad.  When Gordy is forced to move back home, he insists he’s going to eat a fast food chicken sandwich at the dinner table after his mother has made a lovely roast beef dinner.  He argues with his father, citing his age as the reason that he can do as he pleases–a sure sign of adolescence–and his father sarcastically tells him how “impressive” it is that he can eat the food he chooses independently.  This scene of family dysfunction is so telling and significant; the child-parent relationship is just that: between parents and a temperamental child who desperately wants to convince his parents that he’s not worthless.  Gordy’s insistence to his father that he’s an adult and can make his own decisions–at the very least, what he chooses to eat for his dinner–serves as proof that he’s in fact not an adult at all.

Amongst his antics, Gordy dons scuba gear in the shower, where he pretends he’s diving for buried treasure, and he dresses as “the Backwards Man,” a tragic inversion of the savvy businessman his father dreams he could become.
Amongst his antics, Gordy dons scuba gear in the shower, where he pretends he’s diving for buried treasure, and he dresses as “the Backwards Man,” a tragic inversion of the savvy businessman his father dreams he could become.

 

When Gordy decides to quit the “sandwich business” once and for all to fulfill his dreams of becoming an animator, his father even tries grounding him and sending him to his room.  Ironically, Gordy’s fed up dad propels his son into success by showing up at his pitch and trashing the office of Davidson, who’s under the impression that it’s all a creative act.  Although Gordy spends most of his million dollar check to drug his father and bring him to Pakistan, he finally proves himself by selling his “doodles” and taking on a job.

Aren’t we thankful there’s a movie out there where we can see Rip Torn spanking Tom Green like a naughty child?
Aren’t we thankful there’s a movie out there where we can see Rip Torn spanking Tom Green like a naughty child?

 

The title, admittedly, has very little to do with the plot of Freddy, if we can get away with claiming that the film does indeed have a plot.  Gordy accuses his father of molesting his brother, Freddy, which is, of course, untrue.  In accordance with this theme of extended adolescence, the 25-year-old Freddy–ambitious and cocky, and hence Gordy’s polar opposite–is taken into custody by Child Protective Services, and we see him in an orphanage watching television with young children.  Gordy also makes sure to downplay his little brother’s success by telling him over breakfast, “You work at a bank.  Am I supposed to be dazzled?  You live in a tiny little shit hole, and you can’t afford breakfast, so you come here and eat for free.”  Gordy has a point and manages to cast doubt on Freddy’s pride and sense of accomplishment.  Despite Gordy’s talent as a troublemaker and Freddy’s work ethic, Gordy somehow remains the favored of the two sons.

Gordy tries to impress Betty by pretending he works as a stockbroker.
Gordy tries to impress Betty by pretending that he works as a stockbroker.

 

The role of Gordy’s love interest, Betty, is interesting.  Betty is in a wheelchair and is called a “retard slut whore” by Gordy’s dad, representing a demographic that mistakes physical disability with mental impairment.  Gordy purchases a ridiculous bag of jewels that he presents to Betty after stepping off a helicopter on top of a building, and she rejects them, claiming, “I don’t care about jewels.  I just want to suck your cock.”  We’re confronted with an image of female sexuality that many viewers find problematic; disabled female characters tend to be desexualized in film and TV, and we’re also faced with the challenge of negotiating Betty’s voracious sexual appetite with our own misgivings about kink, foreplay, and sadomasochism.

While attempting to give Gordy a blow job, Betty finds his umbilical cord taped to his stomach, a clear reference to his permanent infantilization, which he seems to simultaneously embrace and loathe.
While attempting to give Gordy a blow job, Betty finds his umbilical cord taped to his stomach, a clear reference to his permanent infantilization, which he seems to simultaneously embrace and loathe.

 

So why watch Freddy?  How does the “stupidest movie ever” redeem itself for viewers unwilling to understand surrealist humor?  The meta moments we find in the film culminate in the grand conclusion that “the Hollywood movie” can be interpreted as a pretentious joke, and Green is not taking his own film seriously enough to even stumble upon any form of success.  Green’s treatment of this concept undermines critics’ ability to evaluate his film.

If you’re still skeptical, watch Freddy if only for Julie Hagerty’s performance.  Hagerty, who’s always fabulous as “the mom” (see Just Friends, She’s the Man, and Storytelling) plays Gordy’s nervous, overprotective mother, even though Gordy is practically 30 years old.

At the advice of Gordy, Julie Brody leaves her husband and begins sleeping with Shaq.
At the advice of Gordy, Julie Brody leaves her husband and begins sleeping with Shaq.

 

Green explains that the point of the movie was to be polarizing and that he found further humor in the highly divisive viewer responses.  Green makes us question our own sense of rationality and how we’ve constructed reality thus far in our lives.  Freddy is funny for its unpredictable and nonsensical nature, not its inability to paint a picture of logic and reason.  If viewers feel violated after watching a subversive film that simply cannot be explained away or dismissed, there are plenty of movies that contain tired tropes and stereotypes (see The Women–Bechdel Test, anyone?–and every Tyler Perry movie ever).

In the film’s trailer, Green even tells us, “I don’t really know how to make a movie.”  When Gordy shows Davidson his drawings, he schools Gordy on narrative structure:  “There actually has to be something that happens that’s actually funny.  What the fuck is happening here?”  We may ask that very same question about Freddy.  What’s going on here?  Using surrealist humor to question social contracts and deride an audience that is too entrenched in the trite, the cliche, and the creatively irresponsible, that’s what.

Moments before the film ends, a self-deprecating meta reference.
Moments before the film ends, a self-deprecating meta reference.

 

Any “hard-hitting” criticism of Freddy or movies like it is like judging the lasagna some nut brought to the National Pie Championships.  Ebert was right:  Freddy doesn’t scrape the bottom of the barrel, because Tom Green is too busy wearing the barrel on his head and making everyone uncomfortable to notice.  Green’s movie inherently resists critique, which in fact makes this review, in a certain philosophical sense, nonexistent.

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Jenny holds a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at a community college in Pennsylvania.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  She lives with two naughty chihuahuas.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

Family, Friendship, and Getting By: The Two Mrs. Harts of ‘Reba’

Like many of us, I’m a child of divorce, and I saw firsthand the lasting effects of infidelity and separation. For years, I’ve turned on ‘Reba’ because I find it comforting; everything from the stills of the cluttered kitchen to Reba’s adorable southern twang make me feel very tranquil as I clean or type on my laptop. I detect similarities to my own experiences, such as living in close proximity to a parent’s ex or a father who seems to abandon his former life for a newer, shinier one. ‘Reba’ normalizes these experiences and reminds viewers that every family has its issues.

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

Like many of us, I’m a child of divorce, and I saw firsthand the lasting effects of infidelity and separation.  For years, I’ve turned on Reba because I find it comforting; everything from the stills of the cluttered kitchen to Reba’s adorable southern twang make me feel very tranquil as I clean or type on my laptop.  I detect similarities to my own experiences, such as living in close proximity to a parent’s ex or a father who seems to abandon his former life for a newer, shinier one.  Reba normalizes these experiences and reminds viewers that every family has its issues.

Reba McEntire herself is a sort of meta presence on the show since she plays herself, in a sense–her character’s name is Reba Hart, she sings the theme song at the beginning of each show (“I’m a Survivor”), and her own values seem to be infused into the show’s script and episodes.  The character of Reba also seems to be a direct reflection of Reba the person and musician:  genuine, caring, and down-to-earth.  We enjoy her interactions with Barbra Jean, whether they’re volatile or pleasant.  We like it when they bond and get along (not just for the family but because they are true friends), but we also like it when the two fight or when Reba expresses her annoyance at the tall blonde’s routine antic behavior.  Certainly, the show’s plot is unrealistic, but I’d argue that it’s still worthwhile to explore this unique friendship shared by two very different women who discover they indeed have more in common than Brock.

It took Reba several seasons to warm up to BJ's manic energy.
It took Reba several seasons to warm up to BJ’s manic energy.

 

The impossibility of the “new wife” (and former mistress) and ex-wife becoming best friends is at the forefront of this implausibility.  Brock is a good father and still “visits” as if he never moved out.  Rather than focus on the unbelievable nature of this female friendship, I’d suggest we turn our attention to the healthy post-divorce relationship we see between Reba and Brock.  Sure, it’s fantastical and silly, a departure from reality, a pleasant vision of what could be, but also an image of maturity and sophisticated understanding amongst adults–although Kyra usually ends up being the only “adult” when familial conflict arises.  The show’s framework suggests not that this type of female friendship is possible (especially involving rivalry and “sharing” a man, in some sense), but that families function even when they don’t function, that hostility and resentment are normal and even healthy components of any family unit.

BJ and Reba in a 'Single White Female' moment.
BJ and Reba in a Single White Female moment.

 

When Reba’s friend asks her, “How can you even let that woman in your house?!” Reba calmly explains that the kids need to see their father and BJ (go ahead and giggle) is now “part of the package.”  However, the relationship between the two Mrs. Harts grows into something more complicated than that:  Reba genuinely likes BJ.  Contrary to the fear that she may be seen as a powerless doormat, Reba displays incredible strength, patience, and maturity by inevitably becoming BJ’s best friend, despite Reba’s best attempts to prevent the pair’s apparent non-relationship from evolving into anything greater.  Viewers may interpret this move as a decision to lay down and endure Brock’s adultery; however, the friendship the women share is an acknowledgment of forgiveness, a radical surrender that frames the world as one that keeps spinning in the face of conflict.  There is in fact life after divorce.

BJ represents a very negative stereotype and a cliche:  the mistress who ruined a marriage by having an affair with another woman’s husband.  However, BJ challenges this stereotype we long to hate so much; she is a larger than life presence, a walking, breathing caricature that we come to adore.  As the family celebrates Jake’s birthday party, Kyra eloquently explains that it’s not enough for BJ to plan or attend the party, she is the party.  She substitutes the ogre we imagine her to be, the “type of woman” who breaks up a marriage, who sleeps with a married man.  BJ humanizes the typecast role assigned to her–she’s charming, she longs to help those around her, and she’s a genuinely good person.  Reba explains, “This hasn’t been easy for me, Barbra Jean,” and BJ retorts, “It has just been a freaking picnic for me!”  As BJ explains that she’s the “other woman” and is affected by the gossip and phoniness that surround her as well, we’re allowed a glimpse of what it’s like to be blamed for destroying a marriage.  Deep down, all BJ wants is to be liked and accepted.  In fact, sometimes it seems that she’s willing to forfeit her marriage with Brock in favor of taking on Reba as a permanent partner instead.

The pair attend a women's self-defense class, but inevitably beat up each other.
The pair attend a women’s self-defense class, but inevitably beat up each other.

 

When an elderly babysitter proves incapable of managing the kids and the household in Reba’s absence, BJ steps in, cooking delicious meals, organizing the kitchen, and even pouring Reba a glass of wine to help her relax after a long day.  Inevitably, Jake hugs BJ and calls her “Mommy,” and Reba is left bitter and horrified.  During “girl talk,” Brock wanders in and asks BJ if she’s ever coming home, and BJ informs him that she didn’t make enough food to include him in dinner.  Thrilled with BJ’s domestic skills, Reba tells Brock, “I’m starting to see why you left me for her,” and Brock says, “You’re the one with the new wife.”  As a result, the house becomes a venue to celebrate this pseudo lesbian relationship, where the needs of the kids are put first, and yes, Brock is still a guest.  Although none of the characters realize it, this short-lived partnership is one of great power, demonstrating household productivity and childcare at its zenith.

At times, the trio also seems to mimic a polygamous relationship, such as when Reba tries to repair Brock and BJ’s rocky marriage by counseling them and even offering tips on how to improve their sex life.  Much of Reba’s advice is comically common sense, such as instructing Brock to tell BJ that he reversed his vasectomy or telling BJ not to have an emotional affair with the OnStar guy inside the couple’s car.  Despite Brock’s past indiscretions, Reba’s priority is the wellness of her family, which includes a successful second marriage for her kids’ father.  It’s no mistake the family’s last name is Hart; Reba is clearly the heart of the family, the force around which the others gather, the light BJ finds herself so drawn to.

BJ is eager to exploit Reba's temporary blindness in order to gain her trust.
BJ is eager to exploit Reba’s temporary blindness in order to gain her trust.

 

Even if mine isn’t a popular assessment of BJ’s character, we must admit that we need BJ’s wacky shenanigans to counterbalance Reba’s responsibility, earnestness, and sophistication; there’s no denying that the women’s joint energy creates a dynamic force that carries much of the show.  BJ’s character challenges our assumptions about the labels we quickly and often unfairly place on women both real and fictional:  home-wrecker, whore, gold-digger, etc.  While Reba offers guidance to the naive BJ, the nutty blonde often includes Reba in her misadventures, such as setting up Reba on a blind date or caring for the stubborn redhead after undergoing corrective eye surgery.  Regardless of how we feel about the plot of Reba, BJ bursting through the door unannounced and uninvited, along with Brock freely coming and going in a house he no longer lives in draws not an image of turmoil but one of family.  BJ’s involvement as a stepmother doesn’t spell dysfunction; rather, the relationships we see on the ABC Family show are nothing if not healthy and honest.  In fact, the unlikelihood of the Hart clan’s situation may be exactly why Reba has had such success.  My advice:  Let the marital stuff go; sit back and enjoy the fact that we’ve been drugged by a witty script, inspiring messages, and a variety of comedic personalities who easily suspend disbelief, all on one lovely show.

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Jenny holds a Master of Arts in English, and she is a part-time instructor at a community college in Pennsylvania.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  She lives with two naughty chihuahuas.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

She’s Pretty for a Black Girl: ‘Dark Girls’ and Colorism in America

I can remember an episode of ‘Chappelle’s Show’ (a sketch series that offered some valuable commentary on race and race relations in America) where Paul Mooney says, “Everybody wanna be a nigga, but nobody wanna be a nigga.” How does this seemingly crude sentiment translate to reality? to a social framework? To color? What he means is this: being Black is still considered “cool” and trendy by some, and it can be a mark of power and subversion. On the other hand, those who find race to be an accessory are more than happy to avoid the consequences and negative stereotypes associated with blackness, such as prejudice and discrimination. ‘Dark Girls’ investigates what causes colorism, how it’s begun to poison Black women, and how Black communities can heal from it.

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

I can remember an episode of Chappelle’s Show (a sketch series that offered some valuable commentary on race and race relations in America) where Paul Mooney says, “Everybody wanna be a nigga, but nobody wanna be a nigga.”  How does this seemingly crude sentiment translate to reality? to a social framework? To color?  What he means is this:  being Black is still considered “cool” and trendy by some, and it can be a mark of power and subversion.  On the other hand, those who find race to be an accessory are more than happy to avoid the consequences and negative stereotypes associated with blackness, such as prejudice and discrimination.  Dark Girls investigates what causes colorism, how it’s begun to poison Black women, and how Black communities can heal from it.

A 2011 documentary, Dark Girls details colorism in America, particularly amongst the Black female population.  Since learning about this phenomenon in college, I’ve been fascinated by this idea that the darker your skin, the more poorly you’re potentially treated not only in America, but across the globe.  Dark Girls touches on stereotypes such as dark-skinned girls coming from impoverished communities, or even simply having too much “attitude.”  The film is a touching and inspiring examination of blackness, with layers of social and psychological insight, culminating in a poignant conclusion that urges dark girls to “rise,” to reclaim what’s been forgotten, oppressed, or effaced.

Before I evaluate or scrutinize anything:  I don’t know the Black experience firsthand.  I’m not Black, so I always approach the subject of race with caution.  Watching this film won’t make me “get” the Black experience, and neither will reading Malcolm X or watching a Tyler Perry film.  It’s insulting and reductive to assume that we can absorb the struggles of an entire people simply by exposing ourselves to a piece of art or media, such as a dramatic performance or a book of poetry–these things must be lived.  To reduce a whole race to a 70-minute film like Dark Girls is to limit ourselves.  In short, I admire Black women and the strength they embody, I find “ethnic” hair aesthetically pleasing, and I’ve dated Black and Hispanic men who were absolutely guilty of practicing colorism.

In the opening scene, a little girl tells us that she doesn’t like to be called “Black” because she’s not:  a nice preface for the negative connotations we can attribute to that one word.  Several people interviewed, most of them psychologists, explain the “paper bag test,” which dictates that if your skin is lighter than a brown paper bag, you’re considered beautiful, but if you find yourself darker than the bag, you’re dark and unattractive, and thus undesirable.  This seems an unnecessary exercise in masochism, but hey, women also have the “pencil test,” which lets us know if our boobs are too saggy to be considered sexually attractive (see Breasts, another great documentary where women are interviewed topless).  How very queer to think of mundane items like pencils and paper bags as tools to assess we all are or what we’re worth.

A drawing that reflects such tragic self-doubt at a surprisingly young age.
A drawing that reflects such tragic self-doubt at a surprisingly young age.

 

One psychologist explains that Black women who experience insecurity about their color cannot count on Black men to “liberate” them from this “slave mentality”:  that lighter-skinned Black women are more desirable than dark Black women.  Those of us who saw Django will recall that Broomhilda is light-skinned, which meant that she was a house slave (or a “house nigger”); darker slaves worked largely in the fields since they were considered less valuable or unpleasant to look at.  This observation brings to mind the popular idea that “good” black men are difficult to find; one participant even explains that she knows black men must exist who are capable of giving her a family and a pleasant life, but she fears they all must be in prison.

Black women are generally insulted when Black men declare their romantic and sexual preference for white women.
Black women are generally insulted when Black men declare their romantic and sexual preference for white women.

 

To help offset some of the negative commentary in this short film, we meet many articulate and upfront men who explain that they actually prefer dark women for a variety of reasons:  Black women are sexier or have nicer skin, dark-skinned men want dark babies with other dark women, and even “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.”  Whether or not we agree with any of the men interviewed, we have to appreciate their honesty and willingness to share their feelings about race, color, and Black women on camera.  Some Black women we meet speak to the sexualization of their bodies and their refusal to allow men of any racial background exoticize their skin color.  Some of these women also report that while Black men reject them, white men revere them and their blackness.  While much of this film focuses on racial issues in the United States, it discusses the global prevalence of colorism in countries where we wouldn’t expect such behavior, such as Thailand or the Gambia.

Actor/Comedian Michael Colyar says, “I really believe everybody wants to be Black except Black folks,” a thought that echoes Paul Mooney’s.  The Black experience seems to be coveted and glamorized, despite the knowledge that racism runs rampant.  “They call us colored–but–but–but we always our color, whatever color we are, if we come out, we brown, we always brown, we end up brown.  White people, when they’re born, they’re pink, when they’re mad, they’re red, when they’re cold, they’re blue, when they die, they’re gray.  Them the colored people!”  Clearly, Colyar offers some much needed humor to an otherwise sober look at colorism and what it means to be a dark woman.  Just as Chappelle’s Show utilized humor to diffuse the racial tension it unveiled, comedy seems to be the most effective antidote (besides education!) when combating everything from racism and misogyny to political strife.

Dark Girls also references the absence of dark-skinned people on television; it’s this invisibility that suggests that these people don’t exist for the rest of us.  Colyar goes on to say, “Usually when you see Black people on TV, we’re on our way to jail or we’re rapping or we’re in sports.  You don’t get to see us in a positive light continuously.”  Colyar’s astuteness here demonstrates just how both racism and colorism are perpetuated quietly via our seemingly innocuous television sets.

This woman used to worry that her children would be too dark, but tearfully says that she now loves her beautiful “chocolate baby.”
This woman used to worry that her children would be too dark, but tearfully says that she now loves her beautiful “chocolate baby.”

 

We come full circle as the documentary ends with the same little girl from the opening scene, the beautiful little girl who already struggles with her skin color, believing that Black equates to “bad” and “ugly” while white equals “good” and “pretty.”  This girl represents future generations of dark girls who will hopefully embrace their color and challenge Western beauty ideals.

“My mommy and daddy say I’m beautiful.”
“My mommy and daddy say I’m beautiful.”

 

Colorism seems to be a misguided attempt to better understand your own self-appointed rank of blackness while belittling others in the process.  This practice is maybe prevalent amongst the Black population due to a lack of self-esteem, one’s own self-loathing, or misdirected anger that is perhaps meant for hegemonic masculinity or non-Black cultures.  Because women and Black people are still oppressed, it’s especially problematic when Black women become oppressors of one another; solidarity, at times, can be an illusion if colorism continues within Black communities.  While the little girl we meet–perhaps unnamed because she represents every dark girl everywhere–relies on her family to encourage her, we should all be cognizant of our own inclination to attach negative stereotypes to something as superficial as color.  I was glad to see that Dark Girls concludes on a hopeful note:  that you are not beautiful in spite of your color, but beautiful because of it.

Recommended reading:  2013 Oscar Week: Race and the Academy: Black Characters, Stories and the Danger of Django, Women of Color in Film and TV: A Celebration of Black Women on Film in 2012, Light Skin Vs. Dark Skin: Breaking the Mental Chains 

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Jenny holds a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at a community college in Pennsylvania.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  She lives with two naughty chihuahuas.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

Rape as Narrative Device in ‘American Horror Story’

I recently began watching ‘American Horror Story’ on Netflix to see what all the hullaballoo was about, and I quickly became a die-hard fan of the series. I’ve heard some feminist criticism that popular television’s rape trope is abused and unnecessary. Many viewers find rape scenes more difficult to endure than the goriest and bloodiest of murder scenes in film and on TV. ‘AHS’ depicts rape in each of its three seasons (season four: “Freak Show” begins in October of this year), and I’ve been trying to make some sense of these scenes: all very different, yet centered around the idea that rape is its own horror, worse than murder. Sexual violence in film has always been controversial, in part because it works as an acknowledgment of something so many victims are afraid to share or discuss, even with other victims. ‘AHS’s handful of rape scenes reference gender roles, mental illness, and identity politics, and do in fact have a place in the storylines in which we find ourselves so invested.

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

SPOILERS GALORE, PEOPLE!

I recently began watching American Horror Story on Netflix to see what all the hullaballoo was about, and I quickly became a die-hard fan of the series.  I’ve heard some feminist criticism that popular television’s rape trope is abused and unnecessary.  Many viewers find rape scenes more difficult to endure than the goriest and bloodiest of murder scenes in film and on TV.  AHS depicts rape in each of its three seasons (season four:  “Freak Show” begins in October of this year), and I’ve been trying to make some sense of these scenes:  all very different, yet centered around the idea that rape is its own horror, worse than murder.  Sexual violence in film has always been controversial, in part because it works as an acknowledgment of something so many victims are afraid to share or discuss, even with other victims.  AHS’s handful of rape scenes reference gender roles, mental illness, and identity politics, and do in fact have a place in the storylines in which we find ourselves so invested.

We frequently discover rape in the horror genre for obvious reasons, and the well-known rape-revenge narrative (I Spit on Your Grave, Last House on the Left) is present on AHS, as well.  While this marker of feminist feedback surfaces in the series, the show also works to introduce the rare female-on-male rape scene (a game-changer, for sure–see Descent) along with some very disturbing mommy issues.

AHS addresses all of our darkest fears, but the good news is that horror actually helps us to deal with our personal fears because it gives them shape and helps us to rationalize our feelings, thus unshackling us from the unknown and destroying our dread in the process.  The moment something mysterious is given a name, its spell over us is broken, and we’re free to discover something else that goes bump in the night.  Girls and women are told that rape is the worst thing that can happen to us (“He could have killed you…or worse”), and it’s no surprise that we find it in every season of AHS thus far, so I think it’s worthwhile to consider how the show constructs these unnerving scenes and to assess our response to them.

AHS offers the recurring theme of characters’ pasts catching up to them, reminding us that we can’t outrun the tragic mistakes we’ve made; Ben impregnates his young mistress in “Murder House,” Anne Frank recognizes Dr. Arden as an ex-Nazi in “Asylum,” and Fiona spends eternity in a farmhouse with the Axe Man for being such a wicked bitch in “Coven.”  It would only make sense that the show’s rapists pay for their crimes, and this is our reward for watching some very problematic and complex rapes for three seasons.

In season one, “Murder House,” Vivien (Connie Britton) is raped by “the Rubber Man,” who is a stranger to us for a few episodes, until we discover that he’s actually Tate.  The well-intentioned Ben finally forces him to admit that he raped his wife and fathered one of Vivien’s twin boys.  Obviously, Tate is troubled; he shoots up his school, killing several students, and also sets his stepfather on fire, which permanently disfigures him, but we root for him anyway–not simply because female fans are in love with Evan Peters’ charm and good looks, but because we want to believe that deep down Tate is a good guy who loves Violet.  It’s also significant that Tate dons the creepy rubber suit when he kills and rapes; in this way, Tate forfeits any identity associated with the costume, as if an idea were assaulting and impregnating Vivien, rather than a teenage boy.

We see Tate's potential to become a good person when he's with Violet.
We see Tate’s potential to become a good person when he’s with Violet.

 

Plenty of innocent people are injured and killed throughout the series:  the eerie yet lovable Addy is hit and killed by a car in “Murder House,” Grace is savagely killed with an axe by Alma in “Asylum,” and Nan is drowned in a bathtub by Fiona (cinematic goddess Jessica Lange) and Marie Laveau (Angela Bassett) in “Coven” precisely because she is “innocent,” and the guilty parties always seem to pay for their crimes, in one form or another.  For example, the mentally disabled Nan (the lovely and talented Jamie Brewer has Down Syndrome in real life) is sacrificed to Papa Legba (a sort of voodoo Boogie Man) as an innocent, but Fiona explains, “She killed the neighbor, but the bitch had it coming,” an example of the show’s signature black humor and also our willingness as viewers to play judge, jury, and executioner as we watch the addictive carnage of AHS.  After all, the oh-so-devout neighbor did kill her husband and son both, magnifying the hypocrisy we often encounter in seemingly the most pious of individuals.  Whether we’ll admit that we gain some joy and satisfaction from watching this horrid lady drink bleach and die determines what kind of viewers and people we happen to be.

I think one of the themes AHS wishes to convey is that none of us are entirely innocent…or evil for that matter.  “Original sin” runs rampant throughout season two, “Asylum,” where many scenes are structured around religion and humanity’s treatment of God as deity, concept, and man’s invention.  In this season, Lana is chained to a bed and raped by Dr. Thredson, a man she trusted and confided in before he abducts her.  Because of his deep-seated abandonment issues with his mother, he declares, “Baby needs colostrum” and begins “nursing” from the helpless Lana.  Since colostrum is the first milk produced during pregnancy, this sentiment is deeply symbolic, as the nourishment ensures bonding between mom and baby.  Lana’s rape serves as a catalyst for her journalistic career and bestselling memoir, and she ultimately kills the product and evidence of the crime:  her estranged son, who’s just as whacked out as his father.

At times, Lana tries to appeal to the doctor's obsession with his mother in order to escape.
At times, Lana tries to appeal to the doctor’s obsession with his mother, in order to escape.

 

After an exorcism is performed on a patient, of course Satan chooses the most innocent and pious resident at Briarcliff Manor:  Sister Mary Eunice; yet, we’re not prepared to watch her rape the good-hearted Monsignor.  An important current discussion surrounding rape culture is how any woman can overpower a man, and this scene utilizes the binary of good and evil to build on that reality.  This scene also works well because the Monsignor seems to be fighting biology, trying desperately to resist what he really wants–sex with a beautiful woman, the very thing God tells him he must resist at all cost.  Fittingly, the Monsignor is the one to finally rid Briarcliff of the evil spirit by throwing the sister down to the ground level, killing her (symbolism, much?!).  This rape, then, is the climax of the devil’s reign at Briarcliff before he’s sent back to hell.  When a strange little girl is abandoned at Briarcliff, Sister explains, “All I ever wanted was for people to like me.”  Her possession story can be seen as the Sister gaining some control and self-confidence in both her personal life and her duties at the mental hospital, but sacrificing her virtue in the process.  Sister Jude (Jessica Lange) tells her, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Sister, but it’s a decided improvement,” alerting us to the idea that we can find evil more appealing than righteousness.

Sister Mary Eunice tells the Monsignor, “Your body disagrees with you.” When he tries to explain, “I gave my body to Christ,” she (Satan) responds, “What has he given to you?”
Sister Mary Eunice tells the Monsignor, “Your body disagrees with you.” When he tries to explain, “I gave my body to Christ,” she counters, “What has he given to you?”

 

In season three, “Coven,” we find the rape-revenge narrative when Madison is gang-raped at a frat party in New Orleans.  There’s some obvious foreshadowing when she tells a boy to get her a drink and asks him if he wants to be her slave.  Within rape culture, Madison’s assault can be seen as “putting her in her place.”  When the boys flee the party, she uses her powers to flip their bus and not only kill everyone onboard but break their bodies into pieces.  Probably the only kind thing she does throughout season three, Madison helps Zoe to put Kyle (Evan Peters) back together using the body parts of his frat brothers.  Madison says, “We take the best boy parts, attach them to Kyle’s head, and build the perfect boyfriend.”  The grotesque objectification of the male body (in death, no less) is oddly refreshing.  Kyle’s heart, soul, and mind are still intact after he regains his senses, and he eventually falls in love with Zoe.

Madison tells Zoe that Kyle is still "kind of cute," even when he's in a thousand pieces in a morgue.
Madison tells Zoe that Kyle is still “kind of cute,” even when he’s in a thousand pieces in a morgue.

 

Madison’s tight dress, celeb status, and rude treatment of a random frat guy all point to the possibility of victim blaming, but the witch doesn’t let the young men live long enough to point the finger at her.  Their quick exit and attack on the innocent Kyle, however, are enough to confirm their guilt, or rather the acknowledgement that a crime had in fact been committed that night.  Madison’s magical powers and ability to turn over the huge bus with a swipe of her hand are reflections of a feminist fantasy:  an eye for an eye.  This rape takes place early on in the series both to convey Madison’s metaphysical powers and to remind us that despite this alliance with the occult, she can still be the target of a sexual assault.  We likely find ourselves joyful that these young boys die in a gruesome way after what they do to Madison.  Here, the witch archetype is presented as a source of feminine power and feminist vengeance.  The moral of “Coven”:  Don’t piss off a witch.

A reflection of real-life headlines, the boys film the attack using their cell phones.
A reflection of real-life headlines, the boys film the attack using their cell phones.

 

Another female-on-male rape takes place when Zoe visits one of Madison’s rapists in the hospital.  We may be hesitant to view this as a rape scene since Zoe is a woman raping an unconscious man.  Some critics may even say that the crime couldn’t possibly be rape because of course he would “want it” if he were conscious, but we should be careful not to default to that logic, because it’s the same logic used by rapists in victim blaming.  Although this doesn’t seem an act of violence, Zoe rapes the boy because she has discovered that any man she sleeps with soon dies (vagina dentata, anyone?).  I suppose this rule doesn’t apply to Kyle since, in a sense, he’s already dead.

Zoe tells us, “Since I’ll never be able to experience real love, I might as well put this curse to some use.”
Zoe tells us, “Since I’ll never be able to experience real love, I might as well put this curse to some use.”

 

Indeed, retribution is at work on AHS.  We discover that the college-aged Kyle is chronically molested by his mother, and we’re surely cheering when he bludgeons her to death with a lamp.  Evan Peters gives a stellar performance in every season of AHS thus far, and acts as an ally when he attempts to stop his frat brothers from raping Madison.  While AHS clearly depicts the rape-revenge storyline in “Asylum” and “Coven,” “Murder House” offers a slightly different representation of rape.  When Vivien is raped by a ghost, she’s unable to completely make sense of the situation until she becomes a ghost herself after dying in childbirth.  And even after Ben forces Tate to admit all the wrongs he’s committed in both life and death, Tate is not granted any forgiveness or reprieve; rather, he’s banished by Violet, who he claims is “everything he wants.”  Funny enough, what Vivien wants most–a functional family and a new baby–is partially achieved via several acts of violence:  her rape, Violet’s suicide, and Ben’s scorned mistress hanging him above the stairs.  In fact, the family’s last name “Harmon” sounds a lot like the word “harmony.”

Vivien thinks it's her husband Ben (Dylan McDermott) inside the rubber suit.
Vivien thinks it’s her husband Ben (Dylan McDermott) inside the rubber suit.

 

Biology dictates that we avoid the grotesque, the disturbing, and the bizarre, while AHS pleads with us to confront the demons and monsters around and within us, unveiling the reality that we are capable of the same evils we meet throughout the series.  We can learn something from the unbelieving nun, the bible-thumping murderer next door, the ironically retarded clairvoyant:  not only are appearances deceiving, but if we continue to construct our own realities from them, it will inevitably bite us in the ass.

Rape sequences are supposed to be horrifying and unsettling, and it’s important to examine how we watch rape and why its inclusion in film and television is not meant to demoralize us or assault our senses, but rather to make us think.  Other than the obvious crimes of rape and murder, the show investigates adultery, the gross abuse of power, heresy in its many forms, and betrayal; in fact, there are so many knives sticking out of characters’ backs throughout each season, we’re uncertain who is going to be next.  The rapists we meet on AHS inevitably pay for what they’ve done, rendering the series a feminist work and a platform for further discussion of what scares us the most and how we navigate that fear.

Recommended reading:  Becky, Adelaide, and Nan:  Women with Down Syndrome on ‘Glee’ and ‘American Horror Story’, Exploring Bodily Autonomy on ‘American Horror Story:  Coven’, Reproduction & Abortion Week:  ‘American Horror Story’ Demonizes Abortion and Suffers from the Mystical Pregnancy Trope

5 Ways ‘American Horror Story:  Coven’ Both Conforms to and Challenges Misogynistic Tropes, ‘American Horror Story:  Coven’ Exposes Rape Culture:  Is this Social Commentary Effective?, ‘American Horror Story:  Freak Show’ to be less campy than ‘Coven,’ FX chief says

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Jenny has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

Exploring Imagination and Feminine Effacement in Cartoon Network’s ‘Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends’

Why examine this offbeat show through a feminist or ethical lens? Because ‘Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends’ (Craig McCracken, 2004-2009) is wildly inventive and subversive. Its plot, which explains that children’s imaginary friends must eventually go live at Madame Foster’s zany orphanage after he or she has outgrown their friend, insists that a child’s imagination has the power to make something real, whether adults believe it or not. At this home, young children are welcome to come and “adopt” one of the friends who is housed there. In this way, the friends are concepts that are “recycled” in order to accommodate children as they grow up.

Written by Jenny Lapekas as part of our theme week on Children’s Television.

Why examine this offbeat show through a feminist or ethical lens?  Because Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends (Craig McCracken, 2004-2009) is wildly inventive and subversive.  Its plot, which explains that children’s imaginary friends must eventually go live at Madame Foster’s zany orphanage after he or she has outgrown their friend, insists that a child’s imagination has the power to make something real, whether adults believe it or not.  At this home, young children are welcome to come and “adopt” one of the friends who is housed there.  In this way, the friends are concepts that are “recycled” in order to accommodate children as they grow up.

It’s interesting that Wilt is created with physical defects (his eye and his arm), pointing up the fact that these are not considered flaws by his young creator, but rather just part of who he is, like a hairstyle or shoe size.
It’s interesting that Wilt is created with physical defects (his eye and his arm), pointing up the fact that these are not considered flaws by his young creator, but rather just part of who he is, like a hairstyle or shoe size.

 

There’s a certain level of manic energy present in some of today’s children’s cartoons (see SpongeBob SquarePants), and Foster’s is no exception.  It seems as if so much is taking place all at once–most of which is pure nonsense–that we must comb through a cartoon’s goofy dialogue and fast-paced antics to discover central themes of kindness, friendship, and teamwork.  I grew up watching David the Gnome, Eureeka’s Castle, Will Quack Quack, Noozles, and Faerie Tale Theatre, all shows that were modest and plodding, patient in their moral messages for kids watching at home.  Although Foster’s can be grouped with other kids’ shows that consistently feature a great deal of commotion, this Cartoon Network show boasts some of the most creative characters and engaging plots, even for adults who are fans of clever cartoons with positive messages for everyone.  I never had an imaginary friend growing up, and this show is a reminder of that for me.

The commercial for Foster’s states that it’s a place “where good ideas aren’t forgotten.”
The commercial for Foster’s states that it’s a place “where good ideas aren’t forgotten.”

 

We have an eclectic mix of primary characters who we follow throughout the series.  The atmosphere at Foster’s rests somewhere between a low level psych ward and a daycare full of rambunctious trouble-makers.  Although female-gendered “friends” are largely underrepresented on the show, the lessons Foster’s has to offer to child viewers are healthy and powerful, as they promote building friendships, using your imagination to have fun, and exploring the world around you.

After a fight with his brother, Terrence, which leaves the apartment in disarray, Mac’s mother tells him that at eight years old, he should have outgrown his imaginary friend, Bloo, by now.  The fact that after Mac is forced to surrender his kind imaginary friend, yet continues to visit him every day, is evidence that Mac is not quite ready to grow up yet, and perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.  We’re never too old to dream, imagine, and tell stories.  This pressure to “grow up” translates to a sort of censorship, which inhibits our creative impulses as adults.  We can’t be afraid to embrace nonsense; it can always be the root of something spectacular.

We can assume that Mac creates Bloo to cope with the bullying he receives from his obnoxious older brother on a daily basis.
We can assume that Mac creates Bloo to cope with the bullying he receives from his obnoxious older brother on a daily basis.

 

Since the inhabitants of Foster’s are the products of children’s imaginations, it may make more sense to focus on these characters, rather than the humans who help to run the institution.  If we simply take a look at the appearance of many imaginary friends, we may surmise that this show is the ultimate lesson in diversity for children viewers.  Wilt is very tall with some bodily “deformities,” Eduardo is a Latino creature resembling a bull, and Coco is a bird-like friend whose vocabulary stops at her own name.  By observing many of the friends, we get a sense of the psychology behind each creature’s origin.  Coco, for example, was dreamed up by a little girl who survives a plane crash and becomes stranded on a desert island; if we look closely, the bird’s head and hair mimic a palm tree, and her body looks like a crashed airplane.  In this way, Foster’s can be seen as literally fostering childhood stressors, including the confusion many of us can remember from our early years; the home we find in this cartoon works to make sense of that uncertainty.

Coco’s image is a direct reflection of her little girl’s trauma after a near-death experience.
Coco’s image is a direct reflection of her little girl’s trauma after a near-death experience.

 

Because Coco is the only female character within our primary group of imaginary friends, I think it makes sense to focus on her presence in the home.  Foster’s houses dozens of more friends, a few of them female, and many of them become entangled in the lives of the main characters.  One secondary female character we meet right away is the insufferable Duchess, who believes that she is the best idea anyone’s ever come up with.  This leaves Coco as the only primary character who is an imaginary friend in Foster’s (excluding, of course, the humans who help to run the home).  What luck that Coco, in spite of her limited vocabulary (or perhaps because of), is simply delightful.

Because Coco is only able to say her own name, she must alter her tone to let her friends know if she’s happy or upset, or if she’s asking a question or giving a direction, etc.  This communication has its own set of rules in relation to the other characters (see Stewie from Family Guy).  When Bloo first meets her, he repeatedly says “Yes” because he thinks she’s asking if he’d like some cocoa.  However, Wilt understands her and explains that she was offering Bloo some juice.

In the first episode of the series, Coco repeatedly squawks “Coco!” at Eduardo as he rescues Mac from a vicious monster created by a “jerky teenage boy,” and Eduardo eventually says in Spanish, “Yes, thanks, Coco, you have a way with words,” clearly an ironic joke that Coco is adept at resolving tense situations, despite the fact that we can’t understand her on some level.  It’s also made clear that when we make friends, we eventually begin to speak the same language, even if outsiders are unable to translate it.  The show’s inclusion of a Latino character also exposes children to the Spanish language, which can only be a good thing.  This scene also solidifies Eduardo as a character we cannot and should not judge based on appearances alone.  Despite his large stature and booming voice (not to mention that he’s a bull!), he’s the gentlest friend at Foster’s and is often terrified of children, another example of comical irony in the cartoon.

In season three, Mac responds to Coco’s “gibberish” with an ominous, “Coco, I think if we did that, we’d go to jail,” alerting us to a darker side of Foster’s and its whimsical friends.  Like everything else on the show, her thought is left to our own imaginations.  What’s convenient and exciting about having Coco around is that she can lay eggs that contain fun prizes.  She’s so excited when Bloo arrives at Foster’s that she lays an egg filled with a Ming vase, in addition to a bundle of other mysterious items that Mac carries off when he leaves.  Coco also proves her kindness on Bloo’s first night at Foster’s when she gives him an egg with Mac’s photo inside.

Mac is delighted to gather the plastic eggs Coco has laid.
Mac is delighted to gather the plastic eggs Coco has laid.

 

Coco is important not only because she’s one of the only female characters in the house, but because her presence is a mark of understanding:  that childhood is its own language, and that play and learning are interconnected and necessary for growth.  What children can take away from Foster’s is the understanding that imagination is not synonymous with foolishness, and that it is a muscle to be flexed as often as possible.  If this key lesson is instilled in children at a young age, we can expect them to become more creative and tolerant adults who in turn raise their own children to view the world as being full of possibilities, as opposed to the frightening monsters we carry with us from childhood.  We may find that those monsters hiding in our closets when we’re kids become the unrealized ideas we hide from as adults.  Foster’s materializes this concept beautifully and offers adult viewers the opportunity to live vicariously through each imaginary friend we meet.

Foster’s appeals to kids as it depicts authority figures in a patronizing light, such as the uptight Mr. Herriman, who happens to be a huge rabbit (and also reminds me of the androgynous and high-strung Rabbit of Winnie the Pooh).  And yes, most of the friends we follow on the show are males.  However, these are forgivable offenses considering the lightheartedness the show promotes, not to mention its celebration of childhood and the endless possibilities of the imagination.  Madame Foster’s home offers childhood friends a second chance, proving that imaginary friends don’t die or disappear but are lovingly passed on to the next child who is in need of a wacky companion.  Child viewers who actually entertain imaginary friends can easily find some validation in this show’s exploration of that thin line that separates reality from make-believe.  Foster’s is a fantastic wonderland for young viewers and a gentle push to adults to pay attention to their child’s imaginary friend, who is always very real for the child.

Note:  Season one of Foster’s is currently available on Netflix.

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Jenny holds a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

The Dreamscapes and Nightmares of Jamin Winans’ ‘Ink’

Like many fans of this film, I initially watched ‘Ink’ (2009) on Netflix and immediately conducted some research to learn more about the making of this independent picture. It’s also a narrative that lingers with you after you’ve finished watching it, so I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about the film’s acting and score, as well as the pivotal moments that merge with a complex plot that unfolds somewhere between reality and fantasy. After maybe a half a dozen viewings, this story never fails to evoke tears for me.

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

WARNING:  THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS!

Like many fans of this film, I initially watched Ink (2009) on Netflix and immediately conducted some research to learn more about the making of this independent picture.  It’s also a narrative that lingers with you after you’ve finished watching it, so I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about the film’s acting and score, as well as the pivotal moments that merge with a complex plot that unfolds somewhere between reality and fantasy.  After maybe a half a dozen viewings, this story never fails to evoke tears for me.

This independent film by Jamin Winans is structured around the story of a father and daughter, alongside breathtaking visuals, ethereal yet warrior-like beings, and an amazing, ambient soundtrack.  Comparable to the existential terror of Donnie Darko and the romantic beauty of Eternal Sunshine, Ink is a masterpiece in terms of storytelling, artistic integrity, and the craft of merging humor with the spiritual and the potential darkness lurking in the subconscious.  Winans’ vision will make you question where you go when you close your eyes to sleep and how you find your way back to waking.  Ink also instills a sense of philosophical well-being, suggesting that some events in our lives may be pre-determined while we maintain the ability to step in and incite change if we would like.

Allel tries to figure out how to save Emma's soul.
Allel tries to figure out how to save Emma’s soul.

 

John (Chris Kelly) falls apart and loses his way after his wife dies, leaving him and his young daughter Emma (Quinn Hunchar) behind.  However, with the help of otherworldly companions and foes, father and daughter find each other in the dark, traversing through the world of dreams and nightmares, reminding us that we are our own worst enemy.  In this reality, those who bestow pleasant dreams watch over us as we sleep and fight the evil incubi who attempt to burden us with nightmares.  These two forces battle as we sleep, and John and Emma find themselves in the crossfire in Ink.

Liev, the “Storyteller,” acts as a sort of spirit guide and helps to save both John and Emma through her kind patience and gentle push for John to remember who he used to be.
Liev, the “Storyteller,” acts as a sort of spirit guide and helps to save both John and Emma through her kind patience and gentle push for John to remember who he used to be.

 

Via flashbacks, we discover that John grew up poor and is now obsessed with fortune and success in his career, so much so that he has become a cold shell of the person he once was.  We are also shown glimpses of the love story between John and his late wife.  However, rather than cherish the piece of Shelly still in this world–Emma–he abandons his entire life and embarks on a downward spiral of depression and oblivion.

Most central to the plot of Ink is the conflicted father-daughter relationship we see between John and Emma.  We are shown the dark implications of suicide when we watch John shoot himself and become the grotesque figure, Ink, whose name reminds us that we are always capable of changing our own story, taking initiative and owning our lives and our choices.  Emma also shows immense courage as she loses her father and then helps him to recall his former life.

In an especially critical scene toward the beginning of the film, Emma pleads with her father to play with her, and he is reluctant, claiming that her mother can entertain her when she wakes.  Here, we see the prototypical image of the bumbling, single father who feels uncertain about his parenting abilities, but is in fact doing well raising a daughter (see Casper, My Girl, and Dan in Real Life).  However, after some resistance, John gives in and leaps into Emma’s make-believe world where he must rescue her from “the monster,” which we later discover is indeed John himself.

Making the transition from monster to father, John fights off the incubi and saves his little girl.
Making the transition from monster to father, John fights off the incubi and saves his little girl.

 

I think it’s important to recognize Allel as a fierce guardian over both father and child, and also a wonderful role model for young viewers.  In this dimension, we see multiple fight scenes between Allel and male-gendered incubi.  While saving Emma is truly a group effort, it’s always refreshing to spot a woman who isn’t afraid to swing a dangerous weapon–in Allel’s case, a staff she carries on her back.  Liev, the beautiful and ethereal woman who is willingly taken prisoner by Ink as he and Emma journey to hand over the girl’s soul, is a prominent feminist character in the film, as well; she encourages Emma by explaining that she is transforming into a lioness in this new world and she had better practice her roar.  Unlike Allel, Liev carries no weapons and teaches Emma that her voice is her weapon.

Allel and Liev both act as spirit guides in their quest to protect the innocent life of Emma, who is suffering due to her father’s neglect and drug and alcohol use.  Liev is more of a maternal, pacifist figure in the movie while Allel gets pretty down and dirty beating up the forces of evil.  Both characters are feminine forces the film can’t do without; Allel is part of Emma as she infuses her unconscious with pleasant dreams while Liev lends the resilient Emma the strength to cope with her kidnapping at the hands of her unrecognizable father.

The gang battles their enemies in another dimension, never causing physical change or destruction in our world.
The gang battles their enemies in another dimension, never causing physical change or destruction in our world.

 

We’re so invested in cycles and rhythms, whether it’s in our own lives or in film or literature–which mirror our lives–it’s provocative to find a scene in Ink that depicts the halting or disruption of flow in favor of necessary disorder so that change can be reached.  Jacob, the “Pathfinder,” easily recognizes the chain of events and tells us that  “one thing begets the next.”  In an intense and memorable scene, Jacob demonstrates how sometimes the steady and predictable rhythms of life must be interrupted to jar us so that we can experience a personal revelation and recall what we value and who we are.

Jacob orchestrates an “accident” so that John is sent to the same hospital where his daughter is in a coma.
Jacob orchestrates an “accident” so that John is sent to the same hospital where his daughter is in a coma.

 

The set of metaphysical beings who travel alongside John and Emma in their quest to be reunited are so likable in their efforts to protect father and child, and we fret that they can be defeated at any moment, and all will be lost.  With the combination of bad ass fight scenes, magnificent imagery, and the sense that these guardian spirits are reflections of our own spiritual imaginations and longings, it’s shocking that Ink’s budget was a mere $250,000.  This low-budget sci-fi drama certainly exceeds viewer expectations, and the irony of a blind seer with a chip on his shoulder adds a dimension of comedy to an otherwise somber film.  Ink’s cinematography is impressive, and the film’s score–also developed by Winans–is exquisite and accompanies the film’s juxtaposition of action and quiet nurturing nicely.

Allel tries to hold off the incubi from entering Emma's hospital room.
Allel tries to hold off the incubi from entering Emma’s hospital room.

 

Realizing his error and that he almost abandoned Emma for good, John fights off the evil incubi who merely capture the little girl.  Something awe-inspiring happens as we watch this narrative unfold in two opposing dimensions, one in the clinical environment of a hospital and the other in a world where our souls may be lost if we lose our way.  The merging point is brilliant; John rescues his daughter when she needs him the most, and the film offers us both dream-like metaphor and concrete reality, which work alongside one another well.  John’s decision to seek Emma at the hospital works as Ink’s denouement in a deeply visceral fashion.  We also come to discover that when John is jolted out of his own coma or temporary self-exile, in choosing to father Emma, he chooses himself.

Recommended reading:  In your dreams, beautiful people kick ass.  Ink., Jamin Winans’ ‘Ink’ is one of the most inspiring films I have seen…

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Jenny has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

Love Isn’t Always Soft and Gentle: Female Sexual Desire in ‘Secretary’

Sex and sexuality are complicated, whether we believe it or not. Most of us have experienced some type of same-sex attraction or participated in some kinky activity in the bedroom. Movies often help us to make sense of these feelings and experiences. However, too often, female sexual pleasure and arousal are still deemed unfit for viewing by mainstream film and television. America has a bipolar and hypocritical relationship with female sexuality. Our culture consumes copious amounts of porn and then doesn’t hesitate to slut-shame the women who create and act in pornographic films. Is this because pornography can be seen as objectifying women, while mainstream film humanizes them? Why does the marriage of sexuality and human intimacy feel so dangerous?

Written by Jenny Lapekas as part of our theme week on Representations of Female Sexual Desire.

Sex and sexuality are complicated, whether we believe it or not.  Most of us have experienced some type of same-sex attraction or participated in some kinky activity in the bedroom.  Movies often help us to make sense of these feelings and experiences.  However, too often, female sexual pleasure and arousal are still deemed unfit for viewing by mainstream film and television.  America has a bipolar and hypocritical relationship with female sexuality.  Our culture consumes copious amounts of porn and then doesn’t hesitate to slut-shame the women who create and act in pornographic films.  Is this because pornography can be seen as objectifying women, while mainstream film humanizes them?  Why does the marriage of sexuality and human intimacy feel so dangerous?

The depiction of female sexuality and sexual desire in the offbeat romance, Secretary (Steven Shainberg, 2002), is central to its themes of dominance and submission.  Lee (Maggie Gyllenhaal) can be read as “sexually uncontrollable” by some viewers and critics, but her sexuality complements Mr. Grey’s (James Spader), which is structured and contained.  Lee finds she cannot be sexually aroused or satisfied by the traditional man she’s set to marry; not only is their sex centered on his laughable spasms on top of her, Lee can’t even pleasure herself while his photo sits by her bedside.  We may say that he’s so bad in bed, he interferes with Lee’s orgasms even when absent.

Lee gets to better know herself by exploring her body and entertaining erotic thoughts about her inaccessible employer.
Lee gets to better know herself by exploring her body and entertaining erotic thoughts about her inaccessible employer.

 

Lee has just been released from a mental hospital, and she struggles to gain some independence as she moves back in with a hovering mother and a drunk father.  Among her masochistic tools, we find a hot tea kettle and the sharpened foot of a ballerina figurine, a rather melodramatic image as she sits in a bedroom that is reminiscent of early girlhood, rather than that of a 20-something young woman.  It’s no mistake that Gyllenhaal’s character has an androgynous name; when we meet her, she is not sexually realized, and the way the camera maneuvers around her small frame and conservative clothing communicates this very clearly.

Lee is giddy over her new title of “secretary.”
Lee is giddy over her new title of “secretary.”

 

When Mr. Grey (50 Shades, anyone?) is “interviewing” Lee, he forwardly observes, “You’re closed tight.”  Lee is so willing to do anything and everything Mr. Grey tells her that he cures her of her cutting simply by telling her that she is never to do it again.  We may be tempted to label Mr. Grey rude or offensive, but his character is much more complicated than that, and Lee depends on his behavior to further develop throughout the film.  He is seemingly cruel as he explains that her only tasks are typing and answering the phone, and yet she is incompetent since she routinely makes spelling errors and answers the phone without gusto.  Lee wants desperately to please Mr. Grey.   The film contains two masturbation scenes where we watch Lee climax at the memory of doing exactly as Mr. Grey tells her.  Considering some of the recent controversy surrounding the censorship of female sexual pleasure on television, it feels daring and refreshing to find these scenes in a film.  Gyllenhaal has also received criticism for playing the love interest in The Dark Knight (Christopher Nolan, 2008) since viewers find her “cute,” and not “sexy” enough to take on such a role, which makes her portrayal of a sexually adventurous young woman all the more empowering.

Lee looks like a little girl playing dress-up as we watch her apply the eyeshadow anther woman at work leaves in the bathroom.
Lee looks like a little girl playing dress-up as we watch her apply the eyeshadow anther woman at work leaves in the bathroom.

 

While Lee is shown to be a sexually submissive woman–parallel to the sexually dominant Grey–she discovers her own agency as she blossoms into a more complete person.  She dramatically leaves her fiancé, Peter, and, while wearing her wedding dress, professes her love to Mr. Grey.  She also slaps Mr. Grey across the face as he fires her and successfully fights off Peter when he interrupts her sit-in.  Although Lee gets off on being subservient, she makes it clear that she isn’t afraid to let others know what she wants outside the bedroom; Lee literally runs to Mr. Grey and then screams at Peter to get out.  Paradoxically, Lee’s emergence as a “submissive” accompanies the forming of her newfound independence.

Upon doing what she's told, Mr. Grey asks Lee if she's afraid he's going to fuck her.
Upon doing what she’s told, Mr. Grey asks Lee if she’s afraid he’s going to fuck her.

 

What this film shows us is that sexual submission is a legitimate practice of men and women alike.  During Lee’s “sit-in,” we even see a women’s rights scholar (most likely a local graduate student) visit her to lecture about her apparently anti-feminist choice to obey Mr. Grey by sitting and waiting for his return.  I think it’s unwise to dismiss Lee’s portrayal of a “sexual submissive” as inaccurate or ineffective since this is not an archetype we see very often on the silver screen.  This film is subversive, transgressive, and feminist in its message, its imagery, and its challenging the popular belief that feminist sexuality is a one-size-fits-all cloak we all quibble over and clamber into when it’s time to play academic dress-up.  We watch Lee masturbate, fall in love, and cure an alienated man of his debilitating need for space and order, so I think it’s safe to say that the more Lee embraces her desire to be dominated, the more she controls the events of her own life and discovers agency.

Mr. Grey finally admits he loves Lee by undressing her and bathing her.
Mr. Grey finally admits he loves Lee by undressing her and bathing her.

 

The desire to be told what to do or to obtain permission to do particular activities is undoubtedly linked to sexual arousal and gratification in both men and women.  Although Lee is sexually submissive, she alone pushes Mr. Grey out of his toxic bubble of isolation and shame; she declares her love for the brooding lawyer and kindly informs him that they are a match and can be themselves, together, every day, without embarrassment that their sexual preferences may be considered perverted or taboo by the dreaded status quo.

While this brand of complex female sexuality may not be readily understood by most, it would be reductionist to dismiss Secretary as a misogynistic film, especially when Gyllenhaal’s performance reflects a multi-layered persona and a powerful sexual identity that remains obscure in mainstream cinema.  Lee finds sexual agency, and we stand by to watch and enjoy the pleasure she finds, along with the man who becomes her husband.  The binary of dominance and submission, along with its negotiation of sexual boundaries, is what makes Secretary work.

Recommended reading:  Thinking Kink: Secretary and the Female Submissive

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Jenny has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

“I Choose Gru!”: on ‘Despicable Me 2’ and Lucy Wilde

I only recently discovered the ‘Despicable Me’ movies, and I’m overjoyed that I have an excuse to review the second one and to explicate its feminist elements, especially since so many women have primary roles in the ever-changing life of villain-turned-hero Gru (Steve Carell). In fact, I love these films so much, I enjoyed a Despicable-themed birthday cake earlier this week. It’s no mistake that the second movie concludes while Cinco de Mayo festivities ensue–my birthday!

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

I only recently discovered the Despicable Me movies, and I’m overjoyed that I have an excuse to review the second one and to explicate its feminist elements, especially since so many women have primary roles in the ever-changing life of villain-turned-hero Gru (Steve Carell).  In fact, I love these films so much, I enjoyed a Despicable-themed birthday cake earlier this week.  It’s no mistake that the second movie concludes while Cinco de Mayo festivities ensue–my birthday!

Gru returns to us in Despicable Me 2 (Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaid, 2013) as a nurturing father to three wonderful little girls–Agnes, Edith, and Margo–and we find that he’s able to merge his fatherhood duties with his exciting lifestyle.  In the first film, Gru’s main priority is to become the most evil villain in the world, and he competes with the nerdy yet skilled Vector (Jason Segel) for the title.  While Gru’s evil deeds range from cutting in line for coffee to encouraging his ugly dog to poop on his neighbor’s flowers, he literally gives up the moon for his girls, which now includes his new wife Lucy (Kristen Wiig), sent from the Anti-Villain League to request his help in pursuing a new villain.  Because Lucy completes the image the girls maintain of the exemplary family before they were adopted, and she finds a way into Gru’s heart as well, I would like to focus primarily on her in this post.

Gru is slow to recognize that Lucy's antics complement his nicely.
Gru is slow to recognize that Lucy’s antics complement his nicely.

 

The various roles Lucy plays in this movie are pivotal to the plot and character development we see throughout as we come to understand her as a professional, a cunning and intelligent woman, and an undeniably feminist hero.  That isn’t to say that Gru is not a feminist character as well–indeed, he is very much so.  Lucy becomes Gru’s work partner as the two get themselves into trouble, only to come to each other’s rescue.  She then becomes the temporarily unattainable love interest, then the damsel in distress, and finally Gru’s bride and a mother to the precocious girls, who find their new mom pretty amazing.  As Gru is busy uncovering clues for the Anti-Villain League and combating Margo’s (Miranda Cosgrove) newfound interest in boys, he can’t help but fall for the poise and quirky charm that Lucy emanates.

At Agnes’s birthday party, an unnamed woman is persistent in setting Gru up on a blind date.  Why the push to find someone to love and marry?  This buzzing in Gru’s ear is symptomatic of the heteronormative agenda Gru is struggling to resist.  Gru rejects the woman’s invitations both intellectually and socially by not-so-politely declining, and bodily by spraying her with a garden hose.  His comical proclamation “I did not see you there…or there,” as he knocks her off her feet, signifies the ex-villain’s outright refusal to acknowledge his own “aloneness” (not to be confused with “loneliness”) that others may see when they look at a single (and new) father.  Quite simply, Gru feels perfectly fulfilled by his daughters and his rather eccentric life fighting villains and manufacturing delicious jams and jellies.

However, I think it’s important for us to notice this dynamic as a downtrodden Gru admits to “liking” Lucy to his youngest daughter Agnes (Elsie Fisher), trusting her with this intimate and sensitive knowledge.  Although Gru inevitably gives in to the social contract that we should all marry, especially when we have children, he does so on his own terms and in the name of true love.

Gru is excitedly told, “I know someone whose husband just died!”
Dressed as a fairy princess for the birthday party, Gru is excitedly told, “I know someone whose husband just died!”

 

Lucy arrives quite unannounced and throws Gru in the trunk of her car after assaulting him with her “lipstick taser,” a handy tool that helps her to take advantage of her femininity while fighting crime.  After Gru proves his strength and cunning in the first movie, it’s a bit of a surprise to watch an unknown character take him down so quickly.  However, it’s only fitting that the pair then fall in love and marry; Gru has met his match in more ways than one.  Lucy is kind yet assertive, and possibly most important, she knows how to balance these qualities to embody the type of woman that Gru’s daughters can hope to become someday.  We love her even as Gru’s minions are chasing her car to save their boss, and we continue to adore her even as she embarks on her journey to Australia to take a new job far away from Gru and the girls, only to jump out of the plane and claim Gru as hers.

As we'll see, the violence in the film is naturalized as a source of comedy.
As we’ll see, the violence in the film is naturalized as a source of comedy.

 

When Gru is forced to go on a date with the insufferable caricature Shannon (Kristen Schaal), Lucy takes the initiative to end the date prematurely because she sees that Gru is being demeaned by the shallow woman, specifically for wearing a hair piece in order to hide the fact that he’s bald.  In perhaps one of the darker scenes in the film (along with Gru indirectly threatening to kill his neighbor’s dog in the first movie), Lucy shoots Shannon with a tranquilizer dart, and the two load Shannon’s inanimate body on the roof of Lucy’s car, reasoning to bystanders that she has drunk a bit too much wine with her meal, and they proceed to dump her body at her doorstep as if she’s dead.  If we look carefully later on, we see that Shannon is actually a guest at the couple’s wedding.

Gru is thankful to Lucy for rescuing him.
Gru is thankful to Lucy for rescuing him.

 

In the final action scene, I think it’s important to refrain from classifying Lucy as purely a “damsel in distress,” although this is how I reference her above–because this is, after all, what she is when she’s strapped to a rocket–along with a comically large shark–that’s set to launch into a volcano.  However, from the moment we meet Lucy, we know she’s self-sufficient and more than anything, smart; after all, her decision to love Gru is smart as he’s likely the only person capable of defeating El Macho.  In fact, every decision Lucy makes throughout Despicable Me 2 is for the betterment of Gru and his growing family.  He doesn’t rescue Lucy–just as he rescued Edith, Agnes, and Margo in the first movie–because these characters are helpless females; rather, this conclusion confirms his placement as a hero rather than a villain.  On the contrary, the women found in the Despicable movies are quite capable of protecting themselves and those they care about.

As Gru attempts to deactivate the rocket, Lucy offers her expertise: “Is there a red one? It’s usually the red one.”
As Gru attempts to deactivate the rocket, Lucy offers her expertise: “Is there a red one? It’s usually the red one.”

 

In the wedding scene, which of course involves some skillful dancing, Agnes recites a monologue that she struggles with earlier in the film:  an homage to her mother.  The meaning of this recitation has now shifted since she’s gained a mother.  Earlier, we also enjoy a private moment when Agnes first meets Lucy at the mall and she’s simply dazzled by her presence, a nice precursor to the girls coming to know her as their own mother and celebrating their status as a complete and unique family.

Agnes recites, “She kisses my boo-boos, she braids my hair, we love you mothers, everywhere, and my new mom Lucy, is beyond compare.”
Agnes recites, “She kisses my boo-boos, she braids my hair, we love you mothers, everywhere, and my new mom Lucy, is beyond compare.”

 

Because of Lucy and the girls, Gru comes to understand that he’s not merely a villain in a perpetually bad mood; he’s a caring father, a loving husband, and a boss who’s willing to give goodnight kisses to each and every one of his funny, yellow workers, who are, after all, part of his family as well.  Both Despicable films can be read as feminist pieces as Gru is transformed by the feminine energy he finds pervading his life, influencing his decisions, and causing him to reevaluate his ideals as a villain and a single man.  A concurrently responsible yet offbeat character, Gru represents the new family man in this second film.  With the introduction of the delightful Lucy, Gru finds yet another reason to strive to be his best possible self by taking on the role of husband and learning that if he overcomes his fear of the unknown (and women!), he can attain true happiness.

A lovely wedding photo, complete with Gru's cranky mother and adorable minions.
A lovely wedding photo, complete with Gru’s cranky mother and adorable minions.

 

With the upcoming release of Despicable Me 3 (2017), we can expect more zaniness from the extraordinary family!

Recommended reading:  ‘Despicable Me 2’: One of These Things Is Not Like the Other

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Jenny has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

Agency and Gendered Violence in ‘Thelma and Louise’

These characters challenge our gendered assumptions about sex, trauma, and vengeance, which can make audiences uncomfortable. I was likely too young when I first watched ‘Thelma and Louise’ (Ridley Scott, 1991). However, I remember the surge of adrenaline I felt when Louise shot and killed Thelma’s rapist, how incredibly good it felt to idolize these convict women who had had enough with their monotonous lives, at an age when I couldn’t possibly comprehend patriarchal oppression, the comforts of solidarity and sisterhood, or the concept of escapism utilized not necessarily to run away but rather to find your wildest, most genuine self.

Written by Jenny Lapekas as part of our theme week on Rape Revenge Fantasies.

The rape revenge subgenre, typically within the horror realm, is a topic I’ve thought about a lot.  Rape revenge offers catharsis, fantasy, and a feminist departure from the very real patriarchy, where rape is too often underreported or the victim is dismissed as “wanting it” or “asking for it” via her short skirt.  The avenger of the rape revenge film appropriates the criminal act for his or her own empowerment, hence swapping gender roles. Because rape is typically perpetrated by men, women who respond with violence in the form of murder or another rape represent a wonderfully complex hero/villain binary.  When male perpetrators are violated and/or killed by feminist avengers, what does their feminization mean?  That rape is inherently masculine and carried out on the helpless feminine?  The agency of violence is also in question within this discussion; how do viewers navigate feminine (feminist) violence?  These characters challenge our gendered assumptions about sex, trauma, and vengeance, which can make audiences uncomfortable.  I was likely too young when I first watched Thelma and Louise (Ridley Scott, 1991).  However, I remember the surge of adrenaline I felt when Louise shot and killed Thelma’s rapist, how incredibly good it felt to idolize these convict women who had had enough with their monotonous lives, at an age when I couldn’t possibly comprehend patriarchal oppression, the comforts of solidarity and sisterhood, or the concept of escapism utilized not necessarily to run away but rather to find your wildest, most genuine self.

Thelma is submissive and looks to the confident Louise as a feminist role model.
Thelma is submissive and looks to the confident Louise as a feminist role model.

 

Thelma and Louise seems such an obviously feminist movie, which is why I’d like to focus on Thelma’s rape scene, which galvanizes the pair’s journey thereafter.  I suggest that the film is constructed, then, around the rape narrative, amidst a postfeminist storyline of female bonding and spiritual awakening.  We can easily assess Thelma’s placement as a female character who initially lacks agency; rather, she soothes her husband’s temper tantrums and manages the household.  Like many unhappily married women, she hasn’t a clue what to do about her unhappiness or even how to fully recognize or own it.  The murder of her rapist unleashes a crime spree, but also the act of radical surrender, from which Thelma acknowledges she cannot and will not recover.  This theme of agency is birthed in the rape scene and then climaxes in the famous concluding scene of the women sailing into the Grand Canyon.  Both women make the choice to respond to violence with violence, which is the feminist agency found within the rape-revenge genre.  Women like Thelma and Louise who carry out these acts of violence in order to avenge a rape challenge our cultural understanding of violence as rhetoric and gendered behavior onscreen.

Thelma under the rule of her short-tempered husband and Louise involved in a complicated relationship, the duo plan their vacation with the most innocent of intentions.  We hear Louise call Thelma a “little housewife” in the film’s opening scene, where Louise is introduced to us in her waitress uniform and Thelma is a floral bathrobe.  As she’s packing for their getaway, we see Thelma toss a handgun into her bag as if she’s frightened or repulsed by it; she’s clearly aware of the power the classically phallic symbol boasts, even laying at the bottom of her bag.  When Louise asks her why she bothered to bring it, Thelma says, “Psycho killers, bears, snakes.”  Little do they know that Harlan, the man who attempts to rape Thelma, can be characterized as a “snake,” and they’re the ones who become killers as a result.

I have some trouble taking Christopher McDonald (who plays Darryl, Thelma’s controlling husband) seriously since he’s so incredibly convincing in his roles as goofy characters (see Happy Gilmore [Dennis Dugan, 1996] and Requiem for a Dream [Darren Aronofsky, 2000]).  However, the film’s portrayal of Darryl doesn’t inspire any respect for his character.

Darryl finds that he’s unable to adequately care for himself in Thelma’s absence; Hal even points out during questioning that he’s standing in leftover pizza.
Darryl finds that he’s unable to adequately care for himself in Thelma’s absence; Hal even points out during questioning that he’s standing in leftover pizza.

 

We’ve seen men act as the heroes who thwart rape and assault the would-be rapists (see Untamed Heart [Tony Bill, 1993] and Training Day [Antoine Fuqua, 2001]), but it seems important that in this film, the hero is a woman and a trusted friend who interrupts the crime and actually murders the man attempting to violate Thelma.  Their guns–one bought by Darryl to protect his wife when alone at night and the other stolen from a police officer–are clear representations of male power and privilege; however, the women become quite comfortable appropriating these as weapons in dismantling the phallocracy that governs their choices, their bodies, and their realities while on their infamous road trip.

The rape scene takes place during the first stop on their trip as the ladies are set to travel to the mountains for a getaway.  When Harlan insists that Thelma get some fresh air after a night of drinking and dancing, he tells her that he won’t hurt her, even after hiking up her dress and slapping her in the face.  The level of violence intensifies after she slaps him back, and he bends her over a car and begins to unbuckle his pants.  Louise holds a gun to Harlan’s neck as he puts his hands up and allows Thelma to collect herself and stand up.  It seems that perhaps Harlan will walk away unscathed and even learn a lesson from the experience.  However, he seals his fate when he’s compelled to say, “I shoulda gone ahead and fucked her.”  When Louise turns and asks him to repeat himself, he responds, “Suck my cock,” a fitting sentiment to preface Thelma’s phallic gun exploding and hitting him in the chest.  We gather throughout the film that something happened to Louise in Texas, and it quickly becomes clear that she was the victim of a rape.  Gender-based violence is turned on its head as Louise assumes a position of power, and thus a codified male position.  Thelma’s situatedness within this hierarchy is slow to align with that of the hot-tempered Louise, but when she does transition from “feminine” to “feminist,” she admits that she seems to “have a knack for this shit.”  Shortly before their deaths, Thelma tells Louise that she’s never felt so awake, alerting us that she’s reached a sort of nirvana amidst the mini liquor bottles and desert heat.

We can appreciate Louise's sense of humor in this moment of tension: “You let her go, you fuckin’ asshole, or I’ll splatter your ugly face all over this nice car.”
We can appreciate Louise’s sense of humor in this moment of tension: “You let her go, you fuckin’ asshole, or I’ll splatter your ugly face all over this nice car.”

 

Immediately after the incident, Louise cradles the gun in her hands as the two ride away, as if she’s trying to grasp the power the small pistol carries.  The naive Thelma believes that they can safely go to the police and explain that it was self-defense, but Louise offers the reality that “we don’t live in that kind of a world.”  Rather, we live in a world that punishes women for attracting men and “asking for it” with our clothing or our smiles.  “If you weren’t concerned with having so much fun, we wouldn’t be here right now,” Louise accusingly tells Thelma.  Although Louise is the one to shoot and kill Harlan, she inevitably blames the entire incident on Thelma’s good looks and also acts as a surrogate Darryl, which Thelma even articulates early on in the trip.  Thelma is almost childlike in her naiveté, which calls for a guardian or a mother to constantly reprimand her and correct her behavior.  Louise maintains this role as she protects and guides Thelma for most of the film.

The men in the film seem to get themselves into hot water over the lewd and otherwise disrespectful ways they choose to speak to Thelma and Louise.
The men in the film seem to get themselves into hot water over the lewd and otherwise disrespectful ways they choose to speak to Thelma and Louise.

 

So, does Louise successfully avenge Thelma’s assault or does she have her own axe to grind?  Is Louise, a killer, any better than Harlan or any other rapist slithering through crowded bars or dark streets?  Thelma and Louise offers a feminist catharsis for women viewers, particularly those who are rape survivors, but also for all of us who have been cat-called as perpetual objects of the male gaze.  How many of us now fantasize about blowing up a semi because its driver was making lecherous comments or gesturing with his hands or tongue?  This film serves as a reminder that we deserve to live our lives in peace, free from harassment, and to stop apologizing for ourselves or assuming that our clothing is an invitation for men to put their hands on us.  While Louise makes the decision to repress the memory of her own rape, she actively chooses to avenge the rape of her friend.  Although a murderer, Louise is a hero as she likely prevents any rapes Harlan would have committed had she allowed him to live.

It’s gratifying to witness the transition of the pair’s feminine and feminist identities.  While Thelma makes the noticeable shift from a bored housewife planning dinner to a badass outlaw with a gun, Louise comes to recognize her companion as an equal and to surrender some of her power before the two fly into the Grand Canyon in a blaze of girl-power glory.  Louise identifies her friend’s rape as her own, and unlike Thelma, she is familiar with what some men are capable of in dark parking lots.  The dynamic that propels the plot of Thelma and Louise is friendship, even if that entails a sort of religious awakening on the road (Kerouac style), albeit it via gender equality by way of violence and its appropriation.  Notice that the women and their actions are met with disdain when they demonstrate traditionally “masculine” behavior, such as anger, aggression, and sarcasm.  When Louise initially orders Harlan to stop attacking Thelma, he ignores her; when Thelma finally tells Darryl to go fuck himself, he slams the phone down in disbelief; when the horny trucker discovers that the ladies expect an apology instead of a threesome, he calls them “crazy.”  The women’s actions, then, are met with resistance by most of the men they encounter on their travels, with the exceptions of Hal (Harvey Keitel), the kindhearted cop who longs to help the women, and JD, Thelma’s paramour for one rainy night.

JD steals the money that Louise calls their “future” in Mexico but also unknowingly offers a remedy to their money crisis when he gives Thelma some charismatic lessons on how to rob a store at gunpoint.
JD steals the money that Louise calls their “future” in Mexico but also unknowingly offers a remedy to their money crisis when he gives Thelma some charismatic lessons on how to rob a store at gunpoint.

 

I would suggest that these actions are not meant so much to heal or cleanse the two of their pain or their own crimes, but to “right a wrong” even if it means sacrificing their freedom; in this way, the women discover a new sense of liberation that transcends the pursuit of them in their beat up old Thunderbird convertible.  Toward the end of the film, Thelma shares with Louise that if Harlan had completed his assault against her, people would think that she was “asking for it,” and that she’s sorry it wasn’t her that pulled the trigger.  What we can conclude from this exchange is that any course of events post-rape would leave Thelma “ruined” in some way, but she explains that because of her friend, now she’s at least having fun.

Recommended reading:  “Descent”:  Everything’s okay now:  race, vengeance, and watching the modern rape-revenge narrative, ,  “I Wasn’t Finished”:  Divine Masculinity in Untamed Heart

 

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Jenny Lapekas has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

‘The Moon Inside You’: A Bloody Good Documentary

Menstrual studies is a discipline very close to my heart. While earning my master’s degree, I temporarily became obsessed with texts like ‘Periods in Pop Culture’ (Lauren Rosewarne, 2012) and ‘Flow’ (Elissa Stein and Susan Kim, 2010) as I composed my thesis. I was blessed with a supportive advisor who made me realize that those who shot me disgusted looks in the past were in fact the weird, misinformed ones. I find it perplexing that so many have capitalized on menstruation, yet many are still terrified of discussing it in any form or on any platform. Menstruation is uniquely female and yet suggestive of violence, sacrifice, and trauma: that’s compelling. The menstrual cycle reminds us all of our own mortality, the devastating truth that our bodies will eventually decompose or burn into ashes, and that’s terrifying for many people. Why has the “fairer sex” been assigned this burden?

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

Menstrual studies is a discipline very close to my heart.  While earning my master’s degree, I temporarily became obsessed with texts like Periods in Pop Culture (Lauren Rosewarne, 2012) and Flow (Elissa Stein and Susan Kim, 2010) as I composed my thesis.  I was blessed with a supportive advisor who made me realize that those who shot me disgusted looks in the past were in fact the weird, misinformed ones.  I find it perplexing that so many have capitalized on menstruation, yet many are still terrified of discussing it in any form or on any platform.  Menstruation is uniquely female and yet suggestive of violence, sacrifice, and trauma:  that’s compelling.  The menstrual cycle reminds us all of our own mortality, the devastating truth that our bodies will eventually decompose or burn into ashes, and that’s terrifying for many people.  Why has the “fairer sex” been assigned this burden?

The Moon Inside You (2009) is a documentary film written and directed by Diana Fabiánová.  I bought this film last summer at a conference organized by the Society for Menstrual Cycle Research, and I’ve waited far too long to watch it and offer my two cents.  The film contains English subtitles and also features interviews in French, Slovak, Portuguese, and Spanish.  When I briefly met Diana, I noted that she was very tall, very beautiful, and very accommodating to my questions about her film.

Diana opens her film by interviewing random men on the street so that we can witness their immediate discomfort at the mere mention of the word “menstruation.”  Some men actually walk away; clearly, for many men, menstruation simply isn’t real.  We are in Bratislava where we watch Diana visit the gynecologist, as she tells us that her menstrual cycle has caused her nothing but pain and annoyance for years.  “Being a woman was like punishment for a crime I didn’t commit,” she tells us.  She also explains that she doesn’t prefer to medicate herself, but rather to discover the source of her painful symptoms and put an end to them.  This introduction helps viewers to sympathize with those who experience painful periods that prevent them from attending school and work, and even cause some women to resent everyday life with a uterus.

 

Diana gives us a nice view at the doctor's office.
Diana gives us a nice view at the doctor’s office.

 

Diana speaks to a group of girls at her old school, who explain that boys “have it easier.”  This is a useful place to begin, given that our attitudes toward menstruation are shaped from girlhood, and are typically negative.  Diana gives one girl a camera to record her “pre-menstrual” experiences.  Dominika tells us that a few girls in her class have already hit menarche, but there may be more who “haven’t confessed,” as if it truly is a crime to be a woman, as our narrator tells us.  Diana explains that she wants Dominika’s transition into menstruation to be more pleasant than her own was, and I find myself wishing the very same for this lovely young girl.  Toward the end of the film, via her video diary, we’re glad to hear that Dominika has in fact made a relatively painless transition into the world of menstruation.

 

Even the most "anti-menstrual" women will find themselves rooting for the adorable Dominika to get her first period.
Even the most “anti-menstrual” women will find themselves rooting for the adorable Dominika to get her first period.

 

After tackling some myths surrounding menstruation (such as the idea that menstruating women are capable of killing infants by merely holding them), Diana heads west to speak to academics and other knowledgeable Americans at prestigious universities such as Harvard.  Well-known menstrual scholar and author of The Curse (2000), Karen Houppert is interviewed.  Houppert touches on the terrifying impact menstruation as a taboo has on young girls and also summarizes how and why menstruation played a role in shaping America’s workforce and women’s placement in both the workplace and at home.  Martha McClintock, Professor of Psychology at the University of Chicago even explains that if we observe and study the moods of men, their moods are just as erratic as women’s; however, women are at an advantage since we can actually predict how we will likely feel at a given time of the month.  While this can and should be read as a sophisticated or evolved trait, women are still stigmatized as hormonal and irrational, especially when experiencing PMS.  The fact is that our bodies are wiser than us, and we must listen to our own.  If we feel that our stress is unbearable, it may be an indication that we must retreat and care for ourselves until we are prepared to tend to the needs of others.

 

Diana interviews a group of boys as well, who tell us that women can’t have sex while menstruating because “it gets in the man’s way.”
Diana interviews a group of boys as well, who tell us that women can’t have sex while menstruating because “it gets in the man’s way.”

 

I found it moving to watch a group of women that Diana gathers to participate in an experimental belly-dancing class.  These strangers sit together to share their personal stories of pain and distress related to their cycles and then dance as a group before a large mirror.  The preconception that only young girls on the verge of menarche or new to its inconveniences gather in such a setting is misguided; fully developed women with children and years of experience menstruating can offer one another comfort and solidarity in a safe environment such as this one.

Chris Knight, another well-known scholar to academics and menstrual enthusiasts, author of Blood Relations (1995), tells us, “The most ancient thing is to keep women from knowing about their own power.”  If menstrual blood is a source of power–and I believe it is–then why has our culture gone to such great lengths to conceal this source of power to make us believe that the menstrual cycle is shameful?  In The Vagina Monologues (2007), Eve Ensler shares that she is worried about vaginas, and I think several more of us are worried not about menstruation but how women define themselves by its aura of culpability and self-condemnation.

 

Interspersed throughout the documentary, between Diana’s commentary and interviews, are fun animations of eggs making their way through the fallopian tubes. These brief clips offer a whimsical retreat from the tension felt within much of the film.
Interspersed throughout the documentary are fun animations of eggs making their way through the fallopian tubes, brief clips that offer a whimsical retreat from the tension felt within much of the film.

 

Reminiscent of Gloria Steinem’s famous essay “If Men Could Menstruate,” Diana asks men on the street if they would try menstruating if they could.  While most men say no (and one even suggests that it’s not “cool” to bleed from your vagina), one man claims that he’d like to menstruate so he can finally understand what women experience.

 

We seem to have a social contract that our menstrual blood remains secret and concealed when in public...or anywhere, really.
We seem to have a social contract that our menstrual blood remain secret and concealed when in public…or anywhere, really.

 

Diana touches on the commodification of our cycles with the help of the birth control pill, acknowledging companies like Tampax that capitalize on the shame that pervades our media messages, and the onslaught of rhetoric that suggests women are somehow biologically flawed by this internal feminine clock that is ever-ticking.

We meet the inventor of the contraceptive implant, who tells Diana that menstruation is not “normal” or “natural,” that the scent of blood is “the scent of death,” and that menstruation is essentially a type of abortion or miscarriage.  He believes that once young girls reach menarche, they should experience menstruation once and then immediately prevent ovulation using an implant, since an ovulation that doesn’t result in conception is “useless.”  The dangerous and dogmatic recommendations we hear from the “good doctor” should remind us that he’s nothing more than a mechanic who has never owned a car.

 

A taboo image, the depiction of shit would likely be deemed more acceptable by most people.
A taboo image, the depiction of shit would likely be deemed more acceptable by most people.

 

Penelope Shuttle, co-author of The Wise Wound (2005), counters this by gracefully explaining, “The thing that’s being given birth to is a new you.  You’re giving birth to yourself.”  Contrary to what our male doctor claims, the uterus is a place of origins, not death; this doesn’t mean we should all feel inclined to belly-dance like Diana or participate in a drum circle, but it is certainly beneficial to recognize our own sacredness in our blood and to recognize this same light in the women around us.

 

Women are pressured to be kind and patient during times of hormonal imbalance, although some women experience debilitating pain that prevents them from being productive.
Women are pressured to be kind and patient during times of hormonal imbalance, although some women experience debilitating pain that prevents them from being productive.

 

The Moon Inside You is an honest glimpse into how we frame menstruation around the world and how we situate ourselves within its contradictory rhetoric.  The destigmatization of menstruation should address the contradictory assessments we make of its appearance as girls and women work to untangle the prescriptive web woven by one-dimensional media, good old patriarchal conventions, and the people we may know who oppress women by regurgitating these haphazard messages of shame and body horror.  Young girls can be proud and delighted to reach menarche, just like I was, yet we’re told to bite our tongues as we grow into young women.  As Inga Muscio, author of Cunt (2002) explains, “How many bloody mysteries and future generations are hiding up there, somewhere?”

Recommended reading:  seeing red project, Adventures in Menstruating

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Jenny has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.

“Yes, You Can’t!”: The Happy Failures of Jerri Blank

‘Strangers with Candy’ (Peter Lauer, et al., 1999-2000) is one of the most wildly subversive shows I’ve ever seen on television (most subversive shows are canceled before long–see ‘Wonder Showzen’ (Vernon Chatman and John Lee, 2005-2006, which features segments with David Cross), and it feels like I’ve waited a long time for an opportunity to rave about its hilarious characters and its clever writing. When this delightfully dark show aired on Comedy Central, I was old enough to understand that it appealed to a somewhat alternative audience, yet I was too young to fully comprehend or appreciate the satirical wit and unyielding sense of hopelessness the show conveyed to audiences. Jerri Blank (Amy Sedaris) tirelessly strives for the acceptance of her “peers” in high school, from the snooty cheerleaders and the lusted after jock to the kooky assortment of teachers, which includes Mr. Noblet, played by the wonderful Stephen Colbert, and Jerri’s ironically unsympathetic guidance counselor, Ms. Pines, played by the always funny Janeane Garofalo.

Written by Jenny Lapekas.

Strangers with Candy (Peter Lauer, et al., 1999-2000) is one of the most wildly subversive shows I’ve ever seen on television (most subversive shows are canceled before long–see Wonder Showzen (Vernon Chatman and John Lee, 2005-2006, which features segments with David Cross), and it feels like I’ve waited a long time for an opportunity to rave about its hilarious characters and its clever writing.  When this delightfully dark show aired on Comedy Central, I was old enough to understand that it appealed to a somewhat alternative audience, yet I was too young to fully comprehend or appreciate the satirical wit and unyielding sense of hopelessness the show conveyed to audiences.  Jerri Blank (Amy Sedaris) tirelessly strives for the acceptance of her “peers” in high school, from the snooty cheerleaders and the lusted after jock to the kooky assortment of teachers, which includes Mr. Noblet, played by the wonderful Stephen Colbert, and Jerri’s ironically unsympathetic guidance counselor, Ms. Pines, played by the always funny Janeane Garofalo.

 

After Jerri’s father is eaten by rabid dogs, a doctor tells Jerri, “Your father was dead on arrival. No matter what I did, he just kept getting deader.”
After Jerri’s father is eaten by rabid dogs, a doctor tells Jerri, “Your father was dead on arrival. No matter what I did, he just kept getting deader.”

 

I learned rather recently that Jerri Blank is based on a real person:  Florrie Fisher was a motivational speaker in the 60s and 70s who traveled to high schools and discussed her history as a prostitute and heroin addict.  The series was inspired by Fisher’s public service announcement “The Trip Back,” allowing the birth of Strangers from a fairly dark origin.  The “uglification” of Sedaris as she transforms into the recovering addict, Jerri Blank, is possibly most noticeable to new fans of the show.  Those who worked on the show’s costume and aesthetics seemingly left no stone unturned in their attempt to make Sedaris as hideous and repulsive as possible.  Jerri is a middle-aged woman who returns to high school with a sordid past of drugs and crime–much of which is left to the imaginations of viewers.  With a ridiculously exaggerated overbite, strategically placed padding, and several layers of heavy makeup, Jerri is all teeth, hair and hips.  Sedaris has done much in the way of writing, feminism, and DIY projects, and she has even been featured on the cover of Bust magazine.

 

Mr. Noblet talks with his class about the historical role of the clown, a catalyst for Jerri overcoming her grief.
Mr. Noblet talks with his class about the historical role of the clown, a catalyst for Jerri overcoming her grief.

 

Any fan of the show who is somewhat cognizant of LGBTQ visibility in television and media studies will undoubtedly pick up on the deeply closeted homosexual relationship between Mr. Noblet (Colbert) and Mr. Jellineck (Paul Dinello–whom Sedaris dated for several years).  Chuck Noblet is cold, disconnected and married to a woman he loathes while Geoffrey Jellineck, Flat Point’s caring art teacher, is sensitive, sweet, and vulnerable.  Although the pair are desperately in love, Chuck continually disappoints Geoffrey in a variety of twisted and unimaginable ways throughout three seasons of absurdity.  Besides his refusal to publicly recognize their love, Chuck flees a romantic picnic planned by his lover as Geoffrey is hit by a car, rendering him a faceless monster for the majority of the episode.  What we take away from this stagnant relationship is a model for the most dysfunctional gay romance I’ve encountered in a comedy series.

 

Jerri befriends a blind boy at school and blindfolds herself in an attempt to better understand him.
Jerri befriends a blind boy at school and blindfolds herself in an attempt to better understand him.

 

After exploring all her riveting career options upon graduation, Jerri tells us, “If you’re gonna reach for a star, reach for the lowest one you can.”  Jerri lacks the support of her family; her flippant mother would gladly throw her middle-aged daughter under a bus, and Jerri’s closeted brother Derrick is fueled by teen angst and the desire to somehow disparage a woman who has already been defeated a thousand times over by life’s difficulties.  Like most protagonists of TV dramas, Jerri is supposed to learn a significant life lesson at the end of each episode, yet the obvious message is forever lost on Jerri.  In a two-part episode entitled “Blank Stare,” Jerri joins a cult that has infiltrated Flat Point.  After Jerri’s teachers and principal rescue her from the brainwashed gang who are lodging at “Safe Trap House,” they force the 46-year-old high school student to look into a mirror and admit that the cult is merely a group of liars because they’ve told Jerri that she’s beautiful.  Furthermore, I don’t think Strangers fans actually want Jerri to evolve and become a better person, because then she simply wouldn’t be Jerri Blank anymore.

 

Jerri tries out to be a cheerleader but is taunted once the squad discovers that she's illiterate.
Jerri tries out to be a cheerleader but is taunted once the squad discovers that she’s illiterate.

 

What’s difficult to admit about Sedaris’s character is that Jerri is truly a bad person; she hurts animals, she demonstrates the pinnacle of racist and sexist ideologies and behaviors, and she has clear predatory tendencies toward the high school girls we encounter throughout the show’s run.  Jerri is obviously bisexual, and the aggressive fashion in which she proves this to us may cause more conventional viewers some discomfort.  In short, Jerri violates gender roles.  Sitting outside of Principal Blackman’s (Greg Hollimon) office, Jerri asks a pretty redhead, “Hey Red, carpet match the drapes?”  Due to her ability to play a genuinely likable character with such transgressive traits, Sedaris is an important figure for the evolution of women and comedy; we root for Jerri even as we’re hoping she falls.  Fans of the show may find themselves disliking her racist behavior, such as calling her best friend Orlando, a sweet Filipino boy, a “monkey,” while also finding that this behavior works for the character and situates her as a feminist anti-hero on Comedy Central.  Sedaris successfully satirizes the traumatic high school experience–cliques, bullying, and tough teachers–and de-stigmatizes the negative “sexually aggressive woman” archetype while boasting an identity that has been socially constructed around sex, drugs and alcohol.  While Jerri expects us to believe that she’s better for experiencing this depressing lifestyle and then recovering from it, the show’s writers trust us to believe that Jerry is actually a static character throughout Strangers with Candy.  How, then, can a television show maintain viewership when a character fails to learn or grow?  Simple:  we tune in to Strangers to discover the new and twisted ways in which Jerri will fail, sink, and back-pedal; Jerri’s failures are her triumphs.  This observation then points up the question:  Are we sadists for watching this show?  No, because I think we recognize our own flaws in the caricature nature of Jerri, and we find comfort in the onscreen marriage of these flaws and the hilarity of brilliant writing and acting talents like Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert, and Paul Dinello. 

Recommended reading:  Baking Amy, Tony’s “Strangers With Candy” Companion

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Jenny has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University.  Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.  You can find her on Pinterest and WordPress.