Queer Women as Sexual Beings: ‘The L Word’ and More

Today’s media landscape is fuller than ever with queer characters (though most of them are still white and/or male), yet the stories we see are still most commonly either angst-ridden fumbling towards a coming out or pregnancy and adoption dramas. It’s rare to see a fully realized queer character, too old for coming out and too young for children, actually dating and enjoying sexual encounters. It’s rarer still when it’s a woman.

A typical 'L Word' promotional image which highlights the sexual aspect of the show, luring viewers by titillation over plot or characters
A typical The L Word promo image, luring viewers with titillation

 

Written by Elizabeth Kiy  as part of our theme week on Representations of Female Sexual Desire.

Sadly, it’s still kind of revolutionary to show two women in love having sex or even kissing on TV or in movies that aren’t super niche or ghettoized as pornographic or gay-interest. However, it’s easy enough to see a nominally straight character go gay for sweeps week or two girls making out for male approval in mainstream media. What’s truly scandalous is when the women like it.

Today’s media landscape is fuller than ever with queer characters (though most of them are still white and/or male), yet the stories we see are still most commonly either angst-ridden fumbling toward a coming out or pregnancy and adoption dramas. It’s rare to see a fully realized queer character, too old for coming out and too young for children, actually dating and enjoying sexual encounters. It’s rarer still when it’s a woman.

While gay men are often portrayed as hypersexual partiers, gay women in movies and TV are more likely to worry about their kids, sit on the couch reading together or have rare sex. They’re more like best friends who’ve decided to move in and raise children together than romantic partners (though Modern Family was notably criticized for the lack of passion between its gay male couple, Cam and Mitchell, who didn’t kiss onscreen until the second season of the series). It’s a distinction most notable in the common description of The Kids are Alright, a movie where a lesbian couple have only unsatisfying sex and affairs as “The Lesbian Brokeback Mountain,” comparing it to a film where a gay male couple have a passionate and enduring albeit tortured love affair.

Though there have been some notable deviations from this pattern.

Last year, Blue is the Warmest Color exploded into mainstream discussion for its long and graphic sex scenes, but many viewers felt the scenes were steeped in the male gaze (descriptions of the director Abdellatif Kechiche’s behavior didn’t help matters). Some felt the sex scenes seemed like more of a break from the narrative than genuine portrayal of the character’s passion for each other.

On Glee, Brittany (Heather Morris) and Santana’s (Naya Rivera) relationship began with sex, as they described regularly scissoring each other and were shown in bed together before any idea was given of their feelings for each other. All the emotional stuff between them was added in later. However, when they became an official couple, supposedly in love, the characters stopped interacting, and viewers had to fight to get an onscreen kiss.

Pictured: Not a Kiss
Pictured: Not a Kiss

 

On Grey’s Anatomy, Erica Hahn (Brooke Smith) was moved to tears after her first sexual experience with a woman, which caused her to reassess the way she had been living her life. She compared it to getting glasses as a child and finally seeing the world clearly, after years of unknowingly looking at blurs and not knowing they were supposed to be leaves.

It also stood out when Emily Fitch (Kathryn Prescott) officially came out in the second generation of British drama, Skins, expressing her sexual interest in women. She didn’t just vaguely “like” girls or want to date them, she wanted to have sex with them and explained, “I like their rosey lips, their hard nipples, bums, soft thighs. I like tits and fanny, you know?”

The L Word, the lesbian drama which ran from 2004-2009 on Showtime, is remembered by queer women for problems like its hackneyed writing, transphobia, and bierasure, or its place in their realization of their sexuality, but it has an important role as perhaps the only mainstream TV series where all the major characters were queer women. It’s also the only program where you can list out its top ten lesbian sex scenes.

Ad for The L-Word comparing it to Sex and The City
Ad for The L-Word comparing it to Sex and The City

 

The series was promoted as the queer version of Sex and the City (ads proclaimed “Same Sex, Different City”), and it’s a fairly apt comparison. It focuses on the professional and romantic lives of a group of affluent and fairly feminine queer women in their 20s and 30s living in LA’s gay mecca, West Hollywood, where their lives often intersect with celebrities.

Part of Sex and the City’s enduring position in popular culture is the ease by which the characters, even if you loved them and knew all the particulars of their lives, can be explained by types. We’ve all been asked: are you glamor-loving Carrie, traditional Charlotte, cynical Miranda or sexually liberated Samantha? Likewise, The L Word characters, like uptight power lesbian Bette (Jennifer Beals), earthy valley girl Tina (Laurel Holloman), awkward, closeted athlete Dana (Erin Daniels), social butterfly Alice (Leisha Hailey): the main cast’s only bisexual, and Jenny (Mia Kirshner), a confused midwestern transplant turned sociopath, are such clear types, it’s hard to imagine they’re friends. As THE lesbian show, the series is often posed as representative of lesbian life and love, the awful theme song even proclaims, “This is the way that we live!” Therefore the situations and other characters the protagonists run into are also played as typical.

Jenny’s attraction to Marina changed her life
Jenny’s attraction to Marina changed her life

 

With a cast (excluding male guest stars and short lived series regulars) of women, the show is ruled by female sexual desire and characters’ libidos and sexual pleasure are integral parts of the plot and of the sex scenes. Characters talk sex over coffee, give each other tips, worry about whether their partner orgasmed, fight attraction so strong it’s all-consuming and, in one episode, debate the meaning of female ejaculation. Most are young and single and spend their nights at parties and clubs, a far cry from the stereotype of lesbians staying home with their cats.

It also worked to debunk commonly held patriarchal ideas that sexual intercourse means penetration or requires a penis as women are shown receiving pleasure from different kinds of sex, involving dirty talk, roleplay, toys, hands and mouths.

A typical image of female pleasure from the L-Word
A typical image of female pleasure from The L-Word

 

In fact, the series is often viewed as a sexual primer, answering the curiosities of straight viewers and teaching basic techniques to baby queers. While women are often portrayed in the media as having sex only because the men in their lives desire it, The L Word characters enjoy sex and participate in it for their own sakes, without men to pressure them. In fact, sex between women in the show is often portrayed as more satisfying because sex scenes between women are longer, more explicit and more intense than scenes with men. A lot of attention is also given to the idea that a woman has superior knowledge of the female body because she has one herself. Likewise, Shane, the lesbian Casanova, is desired by every queer woman and most straight women she meets.

 

All the girls (even the straight ones) went crazy for Shane
All the girls (even the straight ones) went crazy for Shane

 

Right off the bat, lesbian sexuality is taken seriously as the first major plot line follows Jenny, consumed by her sexual desire for a woman named Marina despite all logic. By end of pilot, we see them have sex and see it as an amazing eye-opening and life-changing experience for her.

Still, the series can be accused of titillation, and as a mainstream production, it required the interest of straight male viewers to stay on the air. In a season two plot line, the series attempted to address the idea of the male gaze and rape culture with the inclusion of a straight male character who moved in with Jenny and Shane and filmed them without their permission. All the women are gorgeous and feminine (Shane, the most masculine is still thin and stylish), which led to criticism from queer viewers that the show was making the characters more familiar and digestible for straight audiences. On the other hand, The L Word has also been praised for breaking down stereotypes and teaching audiences that not all lesbians are butch.

Still, knowledge that the series came from lesbian creator Ilene Chaiken and involved several queer actresses, guest stars and episode directors allowed queer women to feel a degree of ownership and (often begrudging) affection toward the program. The community complained about it, but still held viewing parties, all hated Jenny together, and voted the stars on hot lists throughout its run.

In season five, the show even pokes fun at the portrayal of lesbian sex in the mainstream when characters get involved in the production of a movie based on their lives. Jenny has to give the cast, who are mostly straight, lessons on how queer women have sex as they have no idea how to portray it accurately. In another episode, a producer gives the ridiculous suggestion that the actresses could have unsimulated sex in the film as the MPAA wouldn’t consider it “real sex.” His suggestion is made more ridiculous by the fact that MPAA guidelines are actually tougher towards portrayals of queer sex than straight sex, and there are numerous examples of scenes of female pleasure garnering NC-17 ratings (as in seen in the documentary This Film is Not Yet Rated).

Though there are examples of movies and TV where lesbian sexual desire and romance are portrayed along with lesbian sex (and I’m sure I’ve missed some), unfortunately, there isn’t another show with an ensemble full of queer women where their sexual desires and sex lives are taken seriously and given consistent airtime. Love or hate The L Word, its portrayal of queer women as sexual beings was, and still is, important.

____________________________________________________________

Elizabeth Kiy is a Canadian writer and freelance journalist living in Toronto, Ontario.

Of Phallic Keys and Ugly Masturbation: Let’s Talk About ‘Mulholland Drive’

That’s right, you guys. I’m gonna try to analyze ‘Mulholland Drive’ for sexual desire week. I do this partly out of love for you, and partly out of hate for me. Let’s get this party started.

Written by Katherine Murray as part of our theme week on Representations of Female Sexual Desire.

That’s right, you guys. I’m gonna try to analyze Mulholland Drive for sexual desire week. I do this partly out of love for you, and partly out of hate for me. Let’s get this party started.

Laura Harring and Naomi Watts star in Mulholland Drive
Laura Harring as Rita/Camilla and Naomi Watts as Betty/Diane

Mulholland Drive (2001), more colloquially known as “Mulholland WTF Did I Just Watch?” is a story told in two parts, both of which were written and directed by David Lynch.

In the first part, Laura Harring plays Rita, a woman who escapes attempted murder but ends up with amnesia and doesn’t remember who she is or what’s going on. She stumbles across Betty (Naomi Watts), a plucky go-getter and brilliant actress who’s come to LA to launch her career, and Betty decides to Nancy Drew this thing by helping Rita piece together her identity. Along the way, they discover the body of a woman named Diane, who killed herself, and briefly run across an actress named Camilla who’s cast in a leading role as result of mob-related conspiracies.

Betty and Rita start a sexual relationship and go to a creepy post-modern theatre where everything is a facade. Then, Rita finds a magic blue box, and stuffs a key inside, at which point all of the characters and plot points go through a blender and the story starts again.

This time Naomi Watts is playing Diane, a failed actress who’s in love with her much more successful best friend, Camilla (Laura Harring). Camilla’s dating a man, which makes Diane insanely jealous, and, when she finally can’t take it anymore, she hires a hitman to murder Camilla and then feels guilty and shoots herself.

The most straightforward interpretation of the movie – and therefore, the one I will steadfastly cling to – is that the second story, about Diane and Camilla, is “true,” whereas the first story is a fantasy created by crazy Diane as a way to escape from her pain.

The first story shows Diane’s alter-ego, Betty, as being capable, likable, talented, and charming. She totally kills her first audition (even after being placed in an awkward position by her co-star), she lives in a beautiful apartment (owned by her aunt, who isn’t present), and she has a timeless, youthful appearance that invokes the sense of an earlier era.

Diane’s idealized version of Camilla is Rita, who takes her name from Rita Hayworth, also invoking the sense of an era gone by. In contrast to Betty, Rita is vacant and dependent, constantly deferring to Betty’s judgement and praising Betty’s abilities without offering any ideas of her own. She’s also the one who initiates their sexual relationship, which frees Betty/Diane from having to feel responsible for it.

The first two thirds of the movie, then, is a story about the way things should have been, from Diane’s perspective – the way, perhaps, that she imagined they would be, before her youthful optimism was crushed by the film industry. So, what do we make of the fact that Diane’s such a creepball?

The blue box of mystery in Mulholland Drive
The box of confusion

Because, make no mistake, now – Diane is a creepball. She behaves in a way that makes Camilla uncomfortable; she pretends to be Camilla’s friend while simmering with hatred, envy, and jealousy from the sidelines; she has Camilla killed (which is creepball enough); and her ultimate fantasy is one in which Camilla’s not even a person, but rather a prop in a story about how great Diane is. To drive it all home, the second story treats us to a long, ugly scene where Diane angrily cries while she masturbates, because that’s what her life has become. She is president of the Friend Zone, but the lesbian aspect adds an extra layer of discomfort.

The first part of the film, with Betty and Rita, feels uncanny and bizarre, like you’d expect from a David Lynch movie. You’re not going to sit there and think, “My, what a beautiful love story that isn’t unnerving at all,” but there’s a sense in which the lesbian romance is not a big deal. You’re just watching two attractive, basically likable people, with no secret, evil agendas, who decide to get it on. It’s a nice change from the way lesbianism was portrayed as sinister and corrupting in Ye Olde Hollywood – and that change lasts exactly as long as it takes for Rita to stick a key in a box and uncover the truth.

I haven’t checked to see, but I bet there’s a paper out there about what it means that one of the lesbian characters discovers her true identity as a straight woman after sticking that key in the box. I’m just saying. I won’t subject you to that kind of symbol analysis, but I do think it’s significant that, after we’re shown such a nice, cuddly picture of lesbian intimacy – like, almost right after – it turns out that Diane is a creeper who’s destined to wind up alone.

The trope of the lesbian friend who weasels her way into your life while secretly creeping on you is something that’s on the way out, but it still exists. You can see it, for example, in Notes on a Scandal, where Judi Dench pretends to be friends with Cate Blanchett while secretly stealing her hair. Somehow, she ends up looking like more of a creep than the woman who’s having sex with a 15-year-old boy.

The question for Mulholland Drive – and I confess that I don’t know the answer – is whether we’re supposed to see Diane’s situation as being universal to the human condition, or as being specifically wrought by her sexual preference. In other words, is this a story about envy and disappointment – the illusions we hold about ourselves, our regret when we don’t live up to our own expectations, our sense of being duped by the images we grew up watching on TV – or is it a story about how lesbians creep on their straight friends? Is Diane’s desire supposed to be creepy because she objectifies Camilla and wants to strip her of agency – because she feels entitled to have Camilla belong to her in a way that is creepy, regardless of gender – or is her desire creepy because she’s a girl?

I think it’s possible that the answer to all of those questions is, “Yes.” Mulholland Drive is a movie that, in many ways, could be about anyone but that, in being about a lesbian, connotes something different than if Diane were, instead, a straight man (or a woman in love with a man – or any other combination there might be). Notwithstanding recent events, as a culture, we’re much more relaxed about men who want to possess women than we are about women who want to possess. The experience of wanting something that doesn’t want you back is filtered very differently, depending on how much privilege we have, and Diane is rejected in a specifically woebegone, Hollywood lesbian way – a way that is, sadly, in keeping with the golden age of cinema she thinks she wants to resurrect.

That said, Mulholland Drive doesn’t feel like its trying to say something really self-reflexive and insightful about the way lesbians have historically been portrayed in film – it feels more like Diane is just creepy. But her creepiness is only one layer in a multi-faceted approach to character that touches on Big Themes of longing, regret, and self-hatred – so, it’s both. It is both a story about our universal humanity, and how lesbian friends are the worst. Complete with phallic keys and ugly masturbation.

Recommended Reading: After Ellen’s review of Notes on a Scandal, AMC’s blog post: Movie History – Why Are There So Few Lesbian Romance Films With Positive Endings?


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

‘But I’m a Cheerleader’: Stripping Away the Normalcy of Heteronormativity

‘But I’m a Cheerleader’ literally queers the stereotype of the popular cheerleader going steady with a handsome football player. The film’s overt display of oppression over queer sexuality speaks to the dominant patriarchal society that strives to eliminate all non-normative ways of living.

'But I'm a Cheerleader' movie poster
But I’m a Cheerleader movie poster

 

This guest post by Abeni Moreno appears as part of our theme week Representations of Female Sexual Desire.

But I’m a Cheerleader literally queers the stereotype of the popular cheerleader going steady with a handsome football player. Natasha Lyonne, who plays the main character, Megan, is confronted by friends and family who suspect her of being the “L” word. That’s right…a lesbian. Megan keeps provocative pictures of women in her locker, despises kissing her boyfriend and sexually fantasizes about her cheermates. It is then that she is sent off to a correctional program called “True Directions.”

But I’m a Cheerleader‘s overt display of oppression over queer sexuality speaks to the dominant patriarchal society that strives to eliminate all non-normative ways of living. In this case, the film focuses on Megan’s experience of discovering her queer sexuality ironically through her participation in “True Directions.” There she meets love interest Graham, Clea DuVull, who is portrayed as the bad girl with a trust fund. It is within their romantic involvement that the film makes painfully apparent conversation therapy fails miserably. Both characters find love and sexual desire in a place that is made to consist of homophobia, stereotypes, and internalized gender roles.

Graham and Megan find love in 'But I'm a Cheerleader'
Graham and Megan find love in But I’m a Cheerleader

 

But I’m a Cheerleader exaggerates gender-“appropriate” color schemes throughout the film, presenting the audience with the ridiculousness of assigned gender roles that people are expected to embody throughout their lives. The Pepto Bismol pink and baby blue uniforms along with the decorated living quarters help illustrate the defined “normalcy” of gender and sexuality often forced upon people by our society. When Megan arrives at True Directions, she is unaware that her sexual fantasies about women and undesirable boyfriend are “abnormal.” The definition of normal is pushed even further when a more tender, intimate, and sensual love scene between Megan and Graham is highlighted as beautiful and loving. In comparison, Megan and her boyfriend are sloppy, awkward, and unaffectionate. But I’m a Cheerleader shows heterosexuality as mundane and unattractive. The film’s focus on a woman sexually desiring another woman is a creative protest of normative sexuality.

The film challenges other forms of gender/sexual expectations. For example, an androgynous character named Jan realizes she is heterosexual during a group therapy session. Her epiphany brings up a vital point that we should not pre-judge and  categorize other people’s sexuality based on their gender, whether it be butch, feminine, trans*, etc. Jan states, “Everybody thinks I’m this big dyke because I wear baggy pants …play softball and I’m not as pretty as other girls, but that doesn’t make me gay… I like guys.. I can’t help it.” The other characters believe Jan is in denial because her outer appearance is masculine. Mike (RuPaul) even bluntly suggests, “Who is she trying to fool?” But I’m a Cheerleader uses Jan to comment on the way people label their peers and define their ways of love and sexuality for them even within the queer community.

Jan But I'm a Cheerleader

Overall, But I’m a Cheerleader shows that there are few safe spaces for alternative sexuality and desire. The characters suppress their identities during their time at True Directions, showing how society often leaves little space for the queer community to be open and out. Megan and Graham hide their relationship, Sinead uses aversion therapy and Andre fails at being butch. These are all common obstacles that many people can relate to. Plus, the film’s 1950s nuance and decor displays the decade’s reputation for the nuclear family and cisgender children as commentary on a time where the majority of the queer community was not out and proud but underground. But I’m a Cheerleader makes it clear that we sometimes internalize discrimination and homophobia to try to fit in. But in the end, we can’t change who are or how we love no matter how much we try to drown ourselves in pink clothes and do our best to throw a football. It’s inevitable that we will break out of the 1950s definition of “normal” that seeks to determine sexual desire and lifestyle.


Abeni Moreno is a Chicana feminist and a recent graduate from California State University Long Beach. She is also a volunteer radio host at Kbeach Radio and KPFK in Hollywood California.

Women As Perpetrators of Violence in ‘Freeway’

In films, as in life, women aren’t supposed to be violent. Women make up the majority of violent crime victims (domestic violence, assault, rape, and murder) but they don’t usually retaliate in kind. Even in the relatively rare film where a woman seriously injures or kills a rapist, like ‘Thelma and Louise’, she does so with lots of tears and anguish–in that film from both from the woman pulling the trigger and the one whom the man attempted to rape. The unwritten rule in movies seems to be that in order to justify a woman killing or even assaulting someone, we need to see her or some other woman suffer, a lot, beforehand. Contrast that rule with the male heroes of action films who leave dozens of corpses in their wake, and not one of the dead has raped or otherwise tortured the hero beforehand–though the hero may be avenging some great wrong the dead guy (or guys) did to his wife or daughter.

WitherspoonFreewayAim

This post by Ren Jender appears as part of our theme week on Rape Revenge Fantasies.

In films, as in life, women aren’t supposed to be violent. Women make up the majority of violent crime victims (domestic violence, assault, rape, and murder) but they don’t usually retaliate in kind. Even in the relatively rare film where a woman seriously injures or kills a rapist, like Thelma and Louise, she does so with lots of tears and anguish–in that film from both from the woman pulling the trigger and the one whom the man attempted to rape. The unwritten rule in movies seems to be that in order to justify a woman killing or even assaulting someone, we need to see her or some other woman suffer, a lot, beforehand. Contrast that rule with the male heroes of action films who leave dozens of corpses in their wake, and not one of the dead  has raped or otherwise tortured the hero beforehand–though the hero may be avenging some great wrong the dead guy (or guys) did to his wife or daughter.

Any experienced moviegoer will see all the signs in the beginning of Freeway pointing to the eventual degradation of its protagonist Vanessa (played by a pre-stardom Reese Witherspoon). She’s an “illiterate” (a script this uneven should be careful about throwing that word around) high school student in a midriff-baring halter top (the film is a runway of 90s fashion that would best be forgotten) who fights off her meth-head stepfather’s advances while her mother does sex work to support her own meth habit. After both her parents are arrested the movie takes off (and finds its comic horror tone) when Vanessa is left alone with her social worker, who doesn’t see any other option but foster care. While addressing the woman in the most respectful manner (“I’ll leave the keys on the TV”), Vanessa chains her to the bed and escapes.

As she sets off, Vanessa wears a red leather jacket and carries her things (including cans of beer) in a wicker basket, evoking Little Red Riding Hood (as do the tacky, sexist illustrations under the opening credits). She makes her way along the freeway to where her grandmother lives.

Vanessa and Bob
Vanessa and Bob

The family shitbox car breaks down, and Bob (a pre-24 Kiefer Sutherland), who is driving by, sees her ass bent over the open hood and stops to help. When he can’t fix the car, he offers her a ride, which she accepts. Bob, in his shiny SUV, pleated khakis, and glasses, talks like Mr. Rogers and works as a therapist. He gets Vanessa to speak at length with him about her troubled background, including her stepfather’s sexual abuse. But when (while still driving) he initiates a “powerful new” therapy in which he asks Vanessa to detail her feelings using explicit language and humiliating details she figures out that, like many men who pretend to help women, he’s a creep. When she tries to get out of the car, she finds the door handle is missing, which Bob dangles in front of her and then uses to hit her. We find out Bob is the freeway rapist and killer Vanessa has seen reports about on TV.

Bob holds a razor to her throat and tells her to take off her pants. She stalls him by telling him she will have to unlace her boots first, but kicks him in the head, rolls into the backseat and holds a loaded gun to his head while shrieking at him to drop the razor out of the window. She hits the back of his head with the gun more than once while he drives, then instructs him to pull over into a middle-of-nowhere exit. When he tries to talk her out of it, she shrieks, “You want to get shot a bunch of times?” Vanessa’s rage in this and later scenes is like an altered state from her usual manner, but she’s not hysterical. When they stop, Bob plays the role usually played by a woman in a movie, crying and pleading for his life while Vanessa decides what she should do with him. “The time for talk is over now,” she tells him, adopting his therapist demeanor. She asks if he’s accepted Jesus Christ as his personal savior, and when he says he has, she says in a thoughtful way, “That’s good. That’s really good.” At this point I thought she would let him go, because of the unwritten rule: we hadn’t seen her subjugated, and she could probably get away without further violence. Instead she shoots him in the neck and leaves him for dead.

She makes her way to a truck stop diner, covered in blood (again part of the Red Riding Hood motif). She’s arrested as she leaves. We see her entering the juvenile detention facility, her face scrubbed of her heavy eye-makeup, so she looks young, vulnerable, and angelic. When one “chola,” Mesquita (Alanna Ubach), and her companions start to threaten her (as, we learn later, a first step in getting Vanessa to “put out”) we think the movie will turn into Born Innocent (this film even has, as Born Innocent did, a weird young lesbian inmate, but this one is a character, not a predator, and is played by an excellent Brittany Murphy) or any of the other women-in-prison films in which the new inmate is assaulted–except Vanessa’s the one who attacks first–and keeps on punching. She yells at Mesquita all the while, beating her into unconsciousness and turning her face into a bloody mess until the staff grab Vanessa and throw her into solitary–where she uses her time alone to make a shiv.

Bob and his wife on TV
Bob and his wife on TV

In her preliminary hearing Vanessa sees that Bob isn’t dead, but is left with permanent disfiguring injuries. He, of course, is posing as an innocent victim of a robbery, and just as he predicted–before she shot him–the authorities believe his word, not hers. “Holy shit,” she says, her eyes opening wide as she sees him across the courtroom and we steel ourselves for her inevitable tears, anguish and suffering, but we don’t get them. Instead, Vanessa taunts him in her thick Southern accent, “Look who got hit with the ugly stick!” When he and his wife later appear on television (to lobby for juveniles like Vanessa to be tried as adults) she watches with the other girls at the facility and taunts him further, imitating his electronically aided voice and alluding to his grotesquely distorted mouth, “My dick may not function, but I haven’t lost my smile.”

Women in films and in life are sorry for so many things, all the time, even those things that aren’t their fault; a film heroine (or antiheroine) like Vanessa, so hilariously unrepentant about her acts of violence, is a triumph. Also refreshing for the audience is being in the position of cheering on a woman threatening and assaulting men (Mesquita is Vanessa’s only female victim, and they become feminist allies by the end) when so much film and television continues to offer up men’s abuse of women–sexual and otherwise–as entertainment.

The writer-director Matthew Bright doesn’t exactly have a magic touch with all the actors (Michael T. Weiss as the stepfather and Brooke Shields as Bob’s wife are particularly execrable), and some of what passes as “satire” in the script, especially before Vanessa gets on the freeway, falls as flat as the worst Saturday Night Live skits. But Witherspoon’s Vanessa shows off the expert comic timing she would later become famous for. She also gets all the best lines. Her scenes with Sutherland (who is great at projecting both creepiness and “normalcy”) when she has her gun on him are a stellar parody of the therapist-patient relationship, with the roles reversed. Her Vanessa also uses her voice to make up for her small stature when she intimidates her victims, the way Ben Kingsley’s character did in Sexy Beast. With Dan Hedaya as one of the police detectives on her case it’s easy to see Vanessa as the violent, class-conscious, NC-17 (the film was censored to finally receive an R rating) version of the main character, Cher, in Clueless (Hedaya played Cher’s father in the film, which was released one year before Freeway). Both of them are headstrong Southern California blondes whom audiences at first underestimate, but by the end come to respect.  Freeway is far from a perfect film but well worth seeing, even for those who don’t count themselves as fans of Witherspoon.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eQbglH0FJ4″]

___________________________________________________

Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing has appeared in The Toast, xoJane, and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender.

The Sex Scenes Are Shit, and the Director’s an Asshole, but You Should Still See ‘Blue Is the Warmest Color’

A three-hour art film about two queer women with subtitles is like a dream come true for me: I’ve sat through arty, subtitled films twice that long–which didn’t have a trace of queer content. So I’ve obsessively read everything I can about Blue Is The Warmest Color. And I’m puzzled. In an age when writers of color like Wesley Morris and Roxane Gay bring added perspective and insight to their reviews of films like, Django Unchained and 12 Years A Slave, why are straight men the overwhelming majority of people telling the world whether or not the sex scenes in Blue are convincing?

Blue Is the Warmest Color poster
Blue Is the Warmest Color poster

 

This is a guest post by Ren Jender.

A three-hour art film about two queer women with subtitles is like a dream come true for me: I’ve sat through arty, subtitled films twice that long–which didn’t have a trace of queer content. So I’ve obsessively read everything I can about Blue Is The Warmest Color.  And I’m puzzled. In an age when writers of color like Wesley Morris and Roxane Gay bring added perspective and insight to their reviews of films like, Django Unchained and 12 Years A Slave, why are straight men the overwhelming majority of people telling the world whether or not the sex scenes in Blue are convincing?

I saw the film about five months after it had won the top prize at Cannes (in an unusual move the jury awarded the prize to the two stars, Léa Seydoux and Adèle Exarchopoulos, as well as the director, Abdellatif Kechiche) just prior to its US release. Julie Maroh (the queer author of the original graphic novel on which the film is based) prepared me to not love the sex scenes, which she described as “porn,” ” brutal and surgical,” and “cold.”

What I didn’t expect, in a film that is told almost entirely in close-ups on faces, was the director  (who also co-wrote the script) framing the sex scenes so they have as much tits and ass–especially ass–in them as possible. The actresses (Seydoux as Emma and Exarchopoulos as Adèle: the director named the main character and the film itself–the French title is La vie d’Adèleafter the woman playing the lead) do a beautiful job of making us believe in this romance–during the rest of the film. But here they are stuck playing a joyless game of naked Twister. We can practically hear the director shout, “Put your hand there! Put your face there! No, there! Now slap her ass! Again!” The ass slapping reminded me of the moment in male-directed, girl-on-girl porn clips, in which, to keep the audience from getting bored and give the actresses something to do, one woman is directed to slap (or tap: it makes a noise like slapping) the vulva of the other woman–even though: I don’t want my vulva slapped, and I’ve never met another queer woman who wants her vulva slapped nor one who gets pleasure from slapping the vulva of another woman.

The director frames a scene in a museum much like the sex scenes, so we get an eyeful of the breasts and buttocks from the nude artworks, as if the scene takes place at a peepshow. If the director had been able to stop ogling women’s body parts, he could have redeemed himself. A woman (who has never had sex with another woman) seeing nudes in the company of the woman to whom she has a strong sexual attraction is a situation rife with possibility. And part of what makes Adèle and Emma’s bond believable is the instant and electrifying attraction they have to each other: Adèle literally stops traffic when she first sees Emma and fantasizes about her that night, though the two haven’t even spoken. Every other moment of their relationship feels genuine (except when one woman hits the other during a fight, which also feels like a man’s version of what two women do when they’re alone), so we feel cheated during the naked sex scenes.

We see what the nude scenes could have been later in the film when the characters have a sexual moment but stay fully clothed–which is maybe why the director doesn’t ruin the mood. The camera focuses on their faces and the emotion that plays across them. Perhaps Kechiche finally learned that no one is able to act with her ass. 

Besides being a creep, Kechiche is an asshole. He cheated his crew out of overtime pay and continued a long tradition of male directors harassing their very young, very naked actresses on the set. When the two women had the temerity to complain, well, you can read for yourself his translated public statements at at Flavorwire. In spite of himself and those ten bad minutes (out of 180), Kechiche’s Blue Is The Warmest Color is a great film everyone should see.

Although the filmmakers (I am including the actresses since, according to all parties, improvisation played a big part in the finished film) and straight reviewers are quick to describe the film as being a universal one of first love, and as Maroh has pointed out no queer women had a prominent role in the creation of the film, it captures queer life and love well, especially the intensity and desperation of a teenager’s first relationship with another woman. When the two have their big fight I cringed in recognition–as I did during many other moments.

The isolation Adèle experiences in her relationship with Emma is nothing like the peer-pressure romance she has at the beginning of the film with the sensitive, good-looking, older boy at school. Her high school friends (most of whom have the same neat, fashionable haircut; Adèle’s hair is messily piled on her head but at the same time always gets in her face) seem more eager about the relationship (“He likes you!”) than Adèle does.

After she breaks up with the boy, we see Adèle walking away from the high school friends who are calling her name to be with Emma. Adèle is opening her life to the elements, to a tornado, knowing nothing will be the same afterward and not caring about the consequences. So we’re not surprised that Adèle clings to Emma like a life preserver. And we’re also not surprised to see that later in the film, without Emma, she starts to sink.

After she’s finished with school, Adèle doesn’t talk with straight coworkers about her personal life, even though she gets along with them and likes her job. She wants to avoid coming out to them. She even hides her true address, so none of them find out she lives with a woman. When heartbreak comes she can’t tell the people she works with why she doesn’t feel like dancing with the preschoolers they look after, so she goes through the motions, letting her real feelings surface only after everyone has left, and the day is done.

Lea Seydoux
Lea Seydoux (Emma)

 

Seydoux (whose previous roles are nothing like the one she plays here) makes Emma a beautiful butch, especially in her later scenes in which she seems lit from within, as if she stepped out of a Renoir painting. Emma is an artist herself and so stunning even those of us who are art-snobs can almost forgive her shitty paintings: the director seems to know as much about the art world as he does about sex between women.

Even in the mainstream films queer women love, we usually have to ignore the discrepancy between how non-character actresses in mainstream films are supposed to look and how butches look. Popular films will sometimes feature a butch who wears makeup heavy enough to be visible on camera, or we will see a woman who is supposed to be butch who has obvious breast implants. Though individual butches may have these attributes, they don’t signal “butch” to other queer women, including those in a film audience.

With her pale lashes and unpainted mouth Seydoux is one of the most recognizable butches I’ve seen in any movie, including those made by queer women. And her Emma pleasantly surprises us in the way that people in real life sometimes surprise us. We expect flirtatious, teasing, older Emma, who has her arm around another woman when she first sees Adèle, and a posse of admirers at the women’s bar, to break Adèle’s heart, but Emma turns out to be a serial monogamist who genuinely cares about Adèle. When Adèle first sees the inevitable cracks forming in her relationship with Emma she does the one thing guaranteed to destroy it (without consciously admitting what she is doing). Adèle ends up breaking her own heart.

Seeing the two actresses play the scene in the café toward the end is like watching two great musicians play together. Some viewers have complained the film is too long, but Blue takes time to unwind the way relationships take time, the way heartbreak takes time, the way life takes time. Even at three hours we just want more.

The film also excels in capturing the experiences of queer women who are femmes. At one point, we see Adèle (who wears skirts and heels) cook for, serve and then clean up for a large group of people she barely knows while her butch girlfriend (whose friends are the party guests) literally lies back with her hands under her head. I’ve played a similar “wife” role to a butch partner–and seen too many other femmes I know do so too.

In a long scene at the party, a man corners Adèle into a conversation about her sexuality, his eyes glittering (he could be a stand-in for the director!), and she’s too polite to tell him to fuck off. I’ve been to that party, met that man, and been that woman.

Adele Exarchopoulos
Adele Exarchopoulos (Adèle)

 

 Adèle is beautiful in the conventional sense (with her hair down, she resembles a younger, more well-fed version of Angelina Jolie), but we see that she doesn’t fit in either at the women’s bar, where she first speaks to Emma or later at the party among her girlfriend’s arty, more conventionally queer-looking friends. She is always, always getting attention from men, even the ones who know she is with Emma–but garners hardly any notice from other queer women.

Though Blue Is The Warmest Color is directed by a straight guy (and one who is, let’s not forget, a creepy asshole) it is, I would argue, a feminist film. It’s centered on one woman and takes her seriously. And Exarchopoulos gives the role (as Adèle jokingly tells Emma she will give her “study” of sex with women) her “all.”  Exarchopoulos’s face here is like a landscape in a Terrence Malick film and Blue, like the works of Malick, should absolutely, positively be seen in a theater, so the experience can wash over us, the way we see seawater wash over Adèle’s face when she is on a working holiday at the beach.

In Blue we see every aspect of Adèle’s life: as a schlumpy teenager, a student of French literature, a daughter, a girlfriend, a protestor, a “friend,” a teacher and finally a stylish twenty-something, alone. Films that cover this range in a man’s life are commonplace, but this week I was supposed to see three acclaimed American movies before their release (some of which competed with Blue at Cannes and may very well compete with it again at the Oscars), and the women in them are, according to even the glowing reviews, types and stereotypes: cute old ladies who talk dirty (and get cheap laughs for doing so) and bitchy ex-girlfriends who show that though the male protagonists may be losers, they aren’t gay losers. So sitting through three hours in a movie theater and focusing on one woman’s life (especially a queer woman’s) was a relief and something I could use a lot more of.  SEE THIS FILM.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2OLRrocn3s”]

 


Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing has appeared in The Toast, xoJane and the Feminist Wire. She almost dressed as “Emma” for Halloween, but then decided to be “zombie Lou Reed” instead.

Seed & Spark: It Just Got Better

Although I don’t share a common background with many people that I meet, I can relate to them thanks to my shared vocabulary: the lexicon of water-cooler moments provided by Bright/Kaufman/Crane, Angelou, Sorkin, Kaling, Chaiken, Fey, and so many others — and I will always be grateful for that. Entertainment and popular culture are universal languages that anyone can buy into as long as she’s willing: social capital as accessible as cable (and the Internet). That the same 35 lesbian-related films are available to stream on Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime — which is only about 20% of the overall “Gay and Lesbian” Genre tag — is frustrating because we’ve made so much progress offline. The fact that there are fewer than 200 films total that we can rent, stream, and buy on major platforms is discouraging, but it doesn’t mean that’s how it has to be forever.

Casablanca (reimagined)
Casablanca (reimagined)

 

This is a guest post by Allie Esslinger. 

I grew up at the knee of amazing storytellers; talk was cheap and all we could afford.  There was never a nest egg, but I always had a cache of stories…and I had television. And…I watched a lot of it. Malcolm Gladwell theorizes a person needs 10,000 contact hours to be brilliant in any one area: serialized, episodic content is my only shot.

I should also mention that I was raised in Alabama — home of the Crimson Tide, Rick Bragg, and the only ABC affiliate that did not air Ellen’s coming out episode in 1997.  It took me a long time to understand myself in the context of the world at large because I didn’t have much access to it.  A lot of progress has been made, but there’s still a lot to be done.

The idea that I made it through thousands of hours of programming and 20 years of life before I ever saw another mixed race lesbian is astonishing. There are 200+ LGBTQ film festivals each year, but only 17 films with a queer female character made it to theaters in 2012. If you aren’t lucky enough to get to OutFest or Gaze or Frameline, it can take months or even years to find a film that got buzz when it premiered– and especially ones that didn’t.

Last month I was finally able to see the full short film Social Butterfly, which was at both Sundance and SXSW in 2013.  It stars Anna Margaret Hollyman and was writtern and directed by Lauren Wolkstein, one of Filmmaker Magazine’s Top 25 to Watch, among other accolades.  It’s a different circumstance — the film was bought at the festival and is currently playing on television in France — but there are so many films that go undistributed out of festivals and then aren’t available again unless the filmmaker themselves are willing to promote, distribute, and make us all aware of their film rather than start a new project.

Despite my love for the gang on Friends, my affinity for high schoolers on the CW, and my complete and utter sympathy for every doctor to ever time an inner monologue to a catchy indie rock tune, I never felt like I had a character who I could identify with on a personal level. Although I generally agree that the beauty of the best films and series is that their stories transcend their characters and their settings, I also maintain that sometimes it’s nice to have the film do the leg work. I don’t always want to be metaphorically related to the person I’m watching on screen. I want it to be obvious (like this new campaign we started on our Tumblr that will re-imagine classic romances as lesbian romance films through their key poster art). It’s not just that the lack of well-produced, well-developed lesbian stories has a negative effect on queer women — it hurts society to never see diverse depictions of this diverse segment of the population. And that’s something we can fix.  

When I was a sophomore in college, I walked into an Honors seminar with a blank index card waiting for me as I sat down. On one side, Dr. McKenzie had us write the most important question we could ask ourselves, and on the other side, we wrote the one thing the world needs most.  Before he read the answers aloud, he explained that the exercise is the foundation for politics–the work of connecting the self with the needs of others. Since we only had 30 seconds to think of these answers, I learned in less than a minute what is most important to me as an individual and a world citizen.

What does the world need most?

               Hope.

What’s the most important question I can ask myself?

               Am I being helpful?

That index card was like a globe spinning on its axis, and then all of a sudden, it was laid  out flat like a roadmap–self-awareness and optimism as the compass.

Although I don’t share a common background with many people that I meet, I can relate to them thanks to my shared vocabulary: the lexicon of water-cooler moments provided by Bright/Kaufman/Crane, Angelou, Sorkin, Kaling, Chaiken, Fey, and so many others–and I will always be grateful for that. Entertainment and popular culture are universal languages that anyone can buy into as long as she’s willing: social capital as accessible as cable (and the Internet).  That the same 35 lesbian-related films are available to stream on Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime–which is only about 20 percent of the overall “Gay and Lesbian” Genre tag–is frustrating because we’ve made so much progress offline.  The fact that there are fewer than 200 films total that we can rent, stream, and buy on major platforms is discouraging, but it doesn’t mean that’s how it has to be forever.

Until 1968, “Section II” of the Motion Picture Production Code outlawed lesbian characters in film. I am reclaiming our namesake as the premier space for relevant content and the people who love it. We want to help deliver diverse content with strong minority characters in major roles so that more people are included in–and compelled to be a part of–more water cooler moments.

Section II is a new Benefit Corporation dedicated to improving the representation of queer women in popular culture. Even in 2013, part of that equation remains “visibility,” but I’m also talking about divergent stories, different formats, contemporary issues being presented without making “issue films.”   We’re building a destination platform for curated, high-quality, lesbian-related films and series committed to the idea that seeing positive portrayals of people we identify with is good for us and good for the people who love us.  We’re a new option for both filmmakers and audiences alike — a place for all the best content.  The model for releasing a film is changing, but I don’t think that should worry filmmakers.  Knowing where a film can live takes away the pressure to modify a film’s premise in order to find an audience.  Of those 17 films with a theatrical release, Pitch Perfect was the only one was from a major studio that GLAAD deemed a positive portrayal based on their Vito Russo Test.  You won’t find a bigger Pitch Perfect fan than me, but after years of looking for queer women in film, 1 positive portrayal out of 101 studio films remains disheartening.

Last year I produced a sizzle reel for a film that is currently looking for funding, called Pretty Girls.  It will be a second feature for the talented team at Invisible College, Andrew Gitomer and Jonathan Stromberg.  My plan for last summer was to follow suit and produce three trailers for films that I wrote or co-wrote, all of which would fit nicely (I’m biased) on Section II.  Last Spring I was in the throes of pre-production and creating comps and worrying about finding investors for the slate of films when the idea for the platform emerged.  And then the opportunity to develop it was presented through the Dogfish Accelerator, a program designed to make filmmakers think more like start-ups and give themselves better odds for longevity.  It’s been a long sprint as we work to test and plot-out enough of this idea to pitch to investors next month, and it’s been invaluable to have the chance to talk with film lovers, filmmakers, and distributors to make sure we’re creating an ecosystem that will sustain all the different segments who want to see an increase in quantity and quality of lesbian-related films.

I was so excited to have the chance to write a post for Bitch Flicks because it’s a site that has taken matters into its own hands–it addresses a void by building a community around conversations that want to take place.  It’s what we want to do at Section II.

I considered writing a fan letter about Ingrid Jungermann’s post-gay agenda and Julie Goldman’s irreverently endearing brand of stand-up comedy.  I could write about how I geeked out when Lauren Wolkstein accepted my Facebook friend request or when I finally had a good reason to introduce myself to Lena Waithe.  I could’ve recycled my analogies about how Brooklyn is like Paris of the 20s because everyone is doing cool things that spur me to figure out the anatomy of a platform launch. But I realized that Section II is a fan letter, and that what I’m most excited about is this process of delivering it to everyone else who is excited about the direction lesbian-related films and series are heading.

We launch this month with a showcase site designed to show you that we’re serious about outstanding content and the talent behind it.  I hope you’ll join in on the fun.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jMYG8yD9lqQ”]

 


Allie Esslinger Color 

Allie Esslinger is a Southern transplant living in Brooklyn. Her company, Olive Juice Films, has produced projects across genres, including documentaries, feature films, web series, live comedy, and commercial campaigns. She earned her BA in International Affairs at the University of Alabama, her MA in International Affairs and Media Studies from The New School, andher MFA in Creative Writing (Screenwriting) from Full Sail University. She is developing Section II, an online and streaming platform for curated, high-quality lesbian content. 

‘Passion’ and ‘Crime d’amour’: Women and Corporate Power Plays

Brian de Palma’s Passion
Written by Amanda Rodriguez

Brian De Palma’s film Passion is a sleek, sexy, beautifully shot neo-noir thriller remade from Alain Corneau’s 2010 French film Crime d’amour (or Love Crime in English). 

Crime d’amour
I always think it’s valuable to examine how films deviate from their source material because those are indications of deliberate choices that can say a lot (whether accidentally or intentionally). Honestly, the films aren’t tremendously different in an overt way, as most scenes are shot-for-shot, line-for-line identical, the basic differences being the languages of each and the uniquely lush, decadent darkness De Palma brings to his works. However, there are a few intriguing, telling differences that bear noting, and therein lies the meat of my analysis.
In Crime d’amour, the manipulative, power-wielding character Christine is played by the acclaimed Kristin Scott Thomas, who is considerably older than her protege, Rachel (pictured above). This creates a more maternal relationship between them, giving Christine the additional power advantage of age. The sexual energy between the two is therefore more illicit and is unreciprocated by the younger Rachel. However, in Passion, the actresses Rachel McAdams as Christine and Noomi Rapace (whom I always love, love, love) as Rachel are much closer in age, so the power dynamic between them rests purely on the weight of Christine’s corporate power and her ability to manipulate people however she sees fit. The sexual energy between the two is complicated, but palpable with love, hatred, desire, and emulation thrown in the mix. This dynamic ensures that the entire film, including the “love crime” that occurs, is about the relationship between these two women and not the man between them (with whom they’re both having sex). He remains ever a pawn they both use against each other.
Christine and Rachel kiss and later, at Christine’s insistence, profess love for each other.
I won’t go into too great detail about the next difference between the two films because it’s spoiler-ridden, but they both approach the story’s murder in opposite manners. In Crime d’amour, we watch the plotting of the crime, unsure as to the perpetrating character’s sanity, motivation, and the final outcome of conviction versus acquittal. De Palma’s Passion, however, is more of a classic noir whodunit, where we’re constantly questioning guilt versus innocence, genuine emotion versus manipulation, and reality versus insanity/fantasy. Both approaches are engaging and enjoyable to watch, so I’ve got no complaints for either interpretation.
The murderer wears a mask that’s a mold of the victim’s face to chilling effect in Passion.
The last most significant change between the original film and its remake is the gender shift for Rachel’s assistant. In Crime d’amour, her assistant is Daniel, a man, and in Passion, her assistant is Dani (played by Karoline Herfurth), a woman. This shift makes only women the major players in Passion. We are left with a power struggle among three femme fatales, all smart, driven women who know what they want and use whatever means necessary to achieve their desires. This triumvirate of femme fatales, full of intelligence, secrets, and cunning, all battling for supremacy, is something I’ve never seen before on the silver screen. Their deep-laid game is impressive in its scope, and it is so exciting to watch three strong female characters unleashing their power. 
The power dynamic shifts as assistant, Dani, reveals her knowledge to Rachel, mirroring the power play between Rachel and Christine.
My major critique of both films, in particular Passion, is the very stereotypical female-ness of the power plays the films explore. Love, sex, desire, humiliation, as well as the manipulation of people and emotions for revenge or personal gain are all tactics traditionally coded as female. Though this tale takes place in the male-dominated corporate world, many (if not all) of the female characters’ actions are dictated by emotion. We are given to see the cycle of mentor and protege being corrupted, ending with the protege on top, first with the relationship between Christine and Rachel and then with Rachel and Dani. It is brutal, cutting deeper than the loss or gain of a promotion due to a superior’s greed, insisting that a hierarchy must exist between women; equality is not an option. Christine says to Rachel, “There’s no back-stabbing here. It’s just business”, and Rachel later repeats it back to her. Both times, the statement is a lie. Both times it shows the opposite to be true. The implication, of course, being that women aren’t capable of divorcing their feelings from business, that the manner in which they gain and keep success, even in a corporate setting, is through ruthless manipulation and, its darkest permutation: out-and-out emotional blackmail.
Rachel devolves after Christine emotionally violates and humiliates her.
Both Crime d’amour and Passion pass the Bechdel Test with flying colors. Unfortunately, these women are slaves to emotion, which is their ultimate weakness, their fatal flaw. I don’t think the films go so far as to suggest that women don’t belong in a highly competitive corporate work place and aren’t capable of being powerful, high-level executives, but I also think the films stop just short of insinuating that. However, Passion, in particular, really showcases strong female characters who are smart, successful, and ambitious without masculinizing them as is common in film portrayals of powerful women, especially in a corporate setting. These women are complicated and morally ambiguous people replete with compelling layers, leaving viewers wondering whether we hate or love them for their brash disregard for the rules and their deeply ingrained self-preservation instincts. Despite the films’ weaknesses (and our heroines’), it’s always refreshing to see powerful, multifaceted women taking charge of the big screen because it happens not nearly often enough.

‘Passion’ and ‘Crime d’amour’: Women and Corporate Power Plays

Brian de Palma’s Passion
Written by Amanda Rodriguez

Brian De Palma’s film Passion is a sleek, sexy, beautifully shot neo-noir thriller remade from Alain Corneau’s 2010 French film Crime d’amour (or Love Crime in English). 

Crime d’amour
I always think it’s valuable to examine how films deviate from their source material because those are indications of deliberate choices that can say a lot (whether accidentally or intentionally). Honestly, the films aren’t tremendously different in an overt way, as most scenes are shot-for-shot, line-for-line identical, the basic differences being the languages of each and the uniquely lush, decadent darkness De Palma brings to his works. However, there are a few intriguing, telling differences that bear noting, and therein lies the meat of my analysis.
In Crime d’amour, the manipulative, power-wielding character Christine is played by the acclaimed Kristin Scott Thomas, who is considerably older than her protege, Rachel (pictured above). This creates a more maternal relationship between them, giving Christine the additional power advantage of age. The sexual energy between the two is therefore more illicit and is unreciprocated by the younger Rachel. However, in Passion, the actresses Rachel McAdams as Christine and Noomi Rapace (whom I always love, love, love) as Rachel are much closer in age, so the power dynamic between them rests purely on the weight of Christine’s corporate power and her ability to manipulate people however she sees fit. The sexual energy between the two is complicated, but palpable with love, hatred, desire, and emulation thrown in the mix. This dynamic ensures that the entire film, including the “love crime” that occurs, is about the relationship between these two women and not the man between them (with whom they’re both having sex). He remains ever a pawn they both use against each other.
Christine and Rachel kiss and later, at Christine’s insistence, profess love for each other.
I won’t go into too great detail about the next difference between the two films because it’s spoiler-ridden, but they both approach the story’s murder in opposite manners. In Crime d’amour, we watch the plotting of the crime, unsure as to the perpetrating character’s sanity, motivation, and the final outcome of conviction versus acquittal. De Palma’s Passion, however, is more of a classic noir whodunit, where we’re constantly questioning guilt versus innocence, genuine emotion versus manipulation, and reality versus insanity/fantasy. Both approaches are engaging and enjoyable to watch, so I’ve got no complaints for either interpretation.
The murderer wears a mask that’s a mold of the victim’s face to chilling effect in Passion.
The last most significant change between the original film and its remake is the gender shift for Rachel’s assistant. In Crime d’amour, her assistant is Daniel, a man, and in Passion, her assistant is Dani (played by Karoline Herfurth), a woman. This shift makes only women the major players in Passion. We are left with a power struggle among three femme fatales, all smart, driven women who know what they want and use whatever means necessary to achieve their desires. This triumvirate of femme fatales, full of intelligence, secrets, and cunning, all battling for supremacy, is something I’ve never seen before on the silver screen. Their deep-laid game is impressive in its scope, and it is so exciting to watch three strong female characters unleashing their power. 
The power dynamic shifts as assistant, Dani, reveals her knowledge to Rachel, mirroring the power play between Rachel and Christine.
My major critique of both films, in particular Passion, is the very stereotypical female-ness of the power plays the films explore. Love, sex, desire, humiliation, as well as the manipulation of people and emotions for revenge or personal gain are all tactics traditionally coded as female. Though this tale takes place in the male-dominated corporate world, many (if not all) of the female characters’ actions are dictated by emotion. We are given to see the cycle of mentor and protege being corrupted, ending with the protege on top, first with the relationship between Christine and Rachel and then with Rachel and Dani. It is brutal, cutting deeper than the loss or gain of a promotion due to a superior’s greed, insisting that a hierarchy must exist between women; equality is not an option. Christine says to Rachel, “There’s no back-stabbing here. It’s just business”, and Rachel later repeats it back to her. Both times, the statement is a lie. Both times it shows the opposite to be true. The implication, of course, being that women aren’t capable of divorcing their feelings from business, that the manner in which they gain and keep success, even in a corporate setting, is through ruthless manipulation and, its darkest permutation: out-and-out emotional blackmail.
Rachel devolves after Christine emotionally violates and humiliates her.
Both Crime d’amour and Passion pass the Bechdel Test with flying colors. Unfortunately, these women are slaves to emotion, which is their ultimate weakness, their fatal flaw. I don’t think the films go so far as to suggest that women don’t belong in a highly competitive corporate work place and aren’t capable of being powerful, high-level executives, but I also think the films stop just short of insinuating that. However, Passion, in particular, really showcases strong female characters who are smart, successful, and ambitious without masculinizing them as is common in film portrayals of powerful women, especially in a corporate setting. These women are complicated and morally ambiguous people replete with compelling layers, leaving viewers wondering whether we hate or love them for their brash disregard for the rules and their deeply ingrained self-preservation instincts. Despite the films’ weaknesses (and our heroines’), it’s always refreshing to see powerful, multifaceted women taking charge of the big screen because it happens not nearly often enough.

The Titillating Nature of Sex: Controversy in ‘Blue is the Warmest Color’

Written by Rachel Redfern

Film poster for Blue is the Warmest Color

Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue is the Warmest Color is the first film with a lesbian protagonist to win the prestigious Palm D’or Award at the Cannes Film Festival. The French drama is based on Julie Maroh’s graphic novel and centers on the life of Adele, a fifteen year-old girl who becomes involved with another young woman. Remarkably, the film is three hours long, which doubles in length the normal hour and half for a romantic comedy in the US, a fact that must develop an enormously powerful love story.

The movie received high praise from critics, and both lead actresses, Adèle Exarchopoulos and Léa Seydoux, were given the Palme as a special prize due to their outstanding performances. Similarly, the film comes at a particularly important moment since France passed a bill allowing gay marriage only a few weeks ago, a bill that has been at the center of huge debates and massive rioting.

However, praise for the movie has been tempered by the controversy of its two graphic sex scenes that have a length on par with the film. While no one has clocked it yet, many have said that the scenes were at least ten minutes in length. This criticism has also been echoed by the writer of the graphic novel, Julie Maroh. 

Abdellatif Kechiche, Adèle Exarchopoulos and Léa Seydoux at the Cannes Film Festival

It’s no secret that Maroh was disappointed in the two sex scenes, essentially calling them pornographic. It’s important to note that she wasn’t mad about the inclusion of sex scenes, but rather specifically called out the director on the lack of realism in the aforementioned scenes. In fact, as is the intention of pornography, she felt that the two scenes served no other purpose than to essentially live out a male director’s fantasies.

According to a statement written by Maroh in regard to fact that the audience was giggling during the scenes, 

“The heteronormative laughed because they don’t understand it and find the scene ridiculous. The gay and queer people laughed because it’s not convincing, and found it ridiculous. And among the only people we didn’t hear giggling were the potential guys too busy feasting their eyes on an incarnation of their fantasies on screen.”

It’s not hard to sense Maroh’s pain here and with good reason since her reasons for writing Blue is the Warmest Color was to, “catch the attention of those who had no clue, who had the wrong picture based on false ideas.” Considering that Maroh intended to offer a more realistic portrayal of lesbian relationships and that instead she felt her goal had been reduced to the very unrealistic portrayal of lesbian pornographic sex, it’s easy to see why she would be upset.

This leads to some interesting questions about the nature of sex, specifically sex between women, in film. For instance, if the director had been female would the outcome have been different? Maroh believes that Kechiche was utilizing a very popular male gaze in the filming of those scenes; perhaps if the director had been a woman the scenes would have been different? However, if we follow that logic it would seem then that lesbian sex in art can only be created by other women? 

Adèle Exarchopoulos and Léa Seydoux in Blue is the Warmest Color

Women sleeping with women constitutes a massive portion of the pornographic film industry; there’s been an almost mythic build-up around the erotic nature of two women having sex. In that case, is there anyway to have non-pornographic lesbian sex scenes? Or is it meant only for the male gaze? (I say male gaze here only because it seems more suitable. While many women would also find it erotic, Maroh felt that it was catering to a very male sexual fantasy.)

Also, it should be noted that not every critic agrees that the scenes were pornographic. Richard Porton on The Daily Beast asks a fair question: “Should men—or for that matter women—aroused by these scenes be moralistically dissed as the arthouse equivalents of the raincoat brigade?” The film is a coming of age story, specifically a story of sexual awakening for a young girl. Sex, is by it’s nature erotic; any movie or novel that attempts to really portray the intensity of vibrant sexuality has to be, well…sexy.

Consider one of my favorite movies, Turn Me On Dammit, which portrays the heterosexual sexual awakening of a young girl but also features a scene where the main character fantasizes about one of her female friends. It’s showing a fantasy; therefore, it is titillatingalthough a bit silly. Perhaps it was the layer of humor then that kept those scenes from the same controversy and scrutiny as Blue is the Warmest Color? (Well, that and the fact that the scene is only about forty seconds long as opposed to a full ten minutes.)

What about heterosexual sex scenes? Is it possible to have non-pornographic heterosexual sex scenes? I would argue yes, Rules of Attraction, Melancholia, and hundreds of other films have done it. But has it been done with two women having sex? I have to say it’s hard for me to think of any.

However, should we not consider that as we continue to espouse the ideals of a more open and tolerant societyone in which sexuality in many forms is considered appropriatethat we will not agree with the portrayal of every sex scene? Could it also be argued that the director was merely displaying sex in a way that he found beautiful and fascinating?

To be fair, Maroh did differentiate between her perception of the film as a writer, where she understood the sex scenes to be another part of Kechiche’s vision, and her perception as a lesbian in which she felt it was inappropriate. But isn’t that the beauty and purpose of art? To showcase life from a variety of perspectives?

What do you think? Are there lesbian sex scenes that are not pornographic?

I’m sorry to only focus on the most tabloidy feature of an obviously powerful movie, but as it hasn’t been released yet, I’m afraid that I can comment little on the rest of the movie. Also, as stories about homosexuality become more and more a part of film, the hypersexualization of lesbian sex is something that needs to be addressed. Also, perhaps my own judgment of the scenes will be different after actually viewing them. 

There is no trailer yet for Blue is the Warmest Color, but two film clips have been released. Go here and here if you’d like to view them.


Rachel Redfern has an MA in English literature, where she conducted research on modern American literature and film and its intersection; however, she spends most of her time watching HBO shows, traveling, and blogging and reading about feminism.

The Hours: Worth the Feminist Hype?

Movie poster for The Hours
Written by Amanda Rodriguez
Disclaimer: I must admit to being somewhat at a disadvantage because I haven’t read Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, which The Hours plays heavily upon, or Michael Cunningham’s novel The Hours upon which the film is based. In a way, however, my lack of exposure to these background materials makes me a keener reader of the actual “text” of the film. I will not be imposing insights, scene developments, or character interactions that do not occur in or are not derived from the film itself.
There’s no denying that The Hours is a powerful and richly complex film, meditating on mental illness, inter-generational connections, sexuality, and the inner lives of women. Because the film is, indeed, so subtle and intelligent, I won’t insult its nuances with a black-and-white, definitive reading. Instead, I will examine the three heroines and draw conclusions in order to tease out what lies beneath all the layers to what I believe is the heart of the film: women’s inability to be truly happy. 
Firstly, there is Virginia Woolf portrayed by the prosthetic nosed Nicole Kidman. 

Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf in The Hours
She is a brilliant, troubled writer suffering from mental illness (symptoms: hearing voices, depression, mood swings, multiple suicide attempts, etc.). Her husband, Leonard, is a good, kind, patient, and devoted man whom Virginia loves very much; she even says of their relationship, “I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.” He has made every concession for her happiness, recovery, and wellness. On her doctors’ orders, Leonard relocates the household to the countryside and starts up a printing press in order to give Virginia the space needed to heal and to write, as it becomes clear that writing is her greatest passion. However, nothing Leonard can ever do will make Virginia happy. No sacrifice, no indulgence, no gesture of his has the power to unravel her complexity and give her the internal peace that she so desperately craves. This fact is proven when Leonard agrees to move the household back to London because Virginia claims she is suffocating and will die in the suburban hell of Richmond, but she still ends up killing herself. She says to him, “I wrestle alone…in the dark, in the deep dark and…only I can know…only I can understand my own condition.” This is the crux of the film, positing that women are such complex, unknowable creatures that men cannot hope to understand them, make them happy, or meet their needs.

Virginia even has an incestuous, lesbian relationship with her sister Vanessa (Nessie).

Virginia Woolf and her sister Nessie

At the end of her sister’s visit, Virginia and Nessie kiss passionately, and it is clear that this sexual familiarity is not new between them. This behavior has two possible implications: 1) that a man can’t make Virginia happy because she is a lesbian and much of her misery and mental distress is due to her societal oppression as a woman and her inability to engage in an openly romantic relationship with another woman, or 2) that Virginia’s needs and desires are incomprehensible and without boundaries, transgressing homosexuality taboos of the time as well as sibling relational bond boundaries. As we examine the next two female characters, it becomes obvious that the film is implying the latter, asserting that the female internal landscape is too vast and incomprehensible to accommodate happiness.

Next up is Julianne Moore’s Laura Brown, the quietly trapped pregnant 1950’s housewife who turns out to be Richard’s mother who abandoned him as a child.

Julianne Moore as Laura Brown in The Hours

The soft-spoken Laura feels trapped by the domesticity of her suburban life. Though she loves her son, Laura (much like Virginia) does not want the life that she finds herself living. She doesn’t want to be a housewife in suburbia, a homemaker, a mother, or a caregiver. This inability to conform or to adapt to this picturesque 50’s lifestyle is encapsulated in Laura’s struggles to bake a birthday cake for her husband, Dan (she ruins the frosting, agonizes over the measurements, and literally sweats while she’s preparing it). Not realizing that Laura almost committed suicide that day and has planned to leave him and their two children, Dan says about his love for his wife and their life together, “I used to think about this girl. I used to think about bringing her to a house, to a life pretty much like this. And it was the thought of the happiness, the thought of this woman, the thought of this life, that’s what kept me going. I had an idea of our happiness.” In his simplicity, he has no comprehension of the depth of the woman he’s married and that this simple life cannot ever make her happy.

Similar to Virginia, Laura shares a lesbian kiss with her distraught neighbor, Kitty.

Laura Brown kissing her neighbor, Kitty, in The Hours

Like Virginia’s kiss, the scene takes place in front of a small child to emphasize the inappropriateness of the act. The passion of this kiss is contrasted with the quiet despair of the rest of Laura’s life, gesturing at repressed homosexuality as the cause of Laura’s misery. Kitty pretending that the mutually enjoyed kiss didn’t happen could easily be interpreted as the catalyst for Laura’s near suicide attempt and ultimate rejection of her life, replete with her deciding that very day to abandon her family.

However, at the end of the film when Laura visits Clarissa, we find that we know little of the life from which Laura runs away other than that she works in a library and is still not happy.

Julianne Moore as an older Laura Brown in The Hours

Laura says to Clarissa of her decision to leave her family, “What does it mean to regret when you have no choice? It’s what you can bear. There it is. No one is going to forgive me. It was death. I chose life.” There is no talk of happiness or fulfillment here, only guilt, regret, and a finding a life one “can bear.” Not only that, but she does not confess to Clarissa, a woman in a lesbian relationship, that she, too, is a lesbian or that she found peace when she found a female lover because, as far as we know, that is not the case. Laura’s youthful searching sexuality becomes just another facet of her more encompassing yearning for happiness along with her inability to embrace it. 

Finally, we have Meryl Streep’s Clarissa, an intelligent woman who’s lived a full, bohemian life.

Meryl Streep as Clarissa in The Hours

Clarissa is a book editor who is financially self-sufficient, has been in a lesbian relationship for a decade, and chose to be a mother despite not having a partner at the time of her artificial insemination or her daughter’s birth. Not only that, but Clarissa plans and throws famously beautiful, wonderful parties, and yet she is still unhappy. (Incidentally, her party organizing inclinations are trivialized by the film, devaluing her community-building qualities.) Clarissa’s dilemma proves that sexuality is not the true problem; it is not the root of all three women’s female-centric unhappiness because she has been in an openly homosexual relationship for ten years. Like both Laura and Virginia, Clarissa wants that which she does not have; in her case, this is the love, affection, and approval of her dear friend and ex-lover, Richard, who is dying, presumably of AIDS. Like the other two women, she clings to an unattainable, intangible idea of happiness, specifically for Clarissa: the past. 

Clarissa having a breakdown after visiting with Richard and deciding her life isn’t worth anything

She says of her relationship with Richard, “When I am with him, I feel, yes, I am living, and when I am not with him, yes, everything does seem sort of…silly.” The only thing that Clarissa identifies as truly making her happy is a condescending invalid who is on the verge of death; he is a symbol of her lost youth, which she can never regain. When speaking of her job, her parties, her partner, and her entire life, Clarissa refers to them all as “false comfort.” This perspective begs the question: If her love life, social life, and professional life can’t give her fulfillment and happiness, then what will? After speaking with Laura, who is Richard’s mother, and hearing Laura’s perspective on finding a life that one can “bear,” Clarissa and Sally, her partner, embrace and kiss passionately in their bedroom. We are left with the questions: In the end, does losing Richard and meeting with his mother make Clarissa appreciate her loving partner, Sally, their home and their life together more? Or does she simply turn to Sally for comfort as she’s always done? Is her story one about settling down or just plain settling?

Clarissa and Sally kissing in The Hours

The Hours leaves me with the distinct impression that this is a story written, told, and interpreted by a man. Though the film pays homage to the beauty and complexity of women, it gets bogged down in the mystery of their desires. The male characters (Virginia’s husband, Leonard, Laura’s husband, Dan, and even Richard and Lewis, Clarissa’s ex-lovers) are at a loss as to how to make the female characters happy, but the men are drawn to them and willing to sacrifice for the hope of that happiness. The underlying sense of female bottomlessness is ever present, as if women are always trying to fill an unfulfillable emptiness inside them (cue Freudian jokes here). This is also a function of race and class, as all three of our heroines are fairly well-educated, financially stable white women whose problems do not center around basic human needs, personal safety, traumatic events/childhoods, etc. That lack of diversity among our heroines also proves to be a limitation of the film itself because it is a limited exploration of the female experience.

Though The Hours is masterfully layered, exuding a remarkably visceral sensation of being trapped, the pervasive notion that women are unknowable not only to their lovers, but to themselves does not truly advance a feminist agenda. The lesbian kisses between Laura and Kitty and especially between Virginia and Nessie become sensationalist and borderline exploitative. The way that Clarissa pines for her male ex-lover despite having a loving female partner also undercuts the potential progressiveness of the film’s sexual politics. Is the film saying that the world is not ready to give women all the agency and happiness of which they are intellectually and emotional capable? Perhaps. Does the way the film is saying it feel like a male indictment of the incomprehensibility of women? It does to me. What do you think?

Foreign Film Week: Growing Up Queer: ‘Water Lilies’ (2007) and ‘Tomboy’ (2011)

Written by Max Thornton, this review previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on June 26, 2012.
Céline Sciamma’s films are ever so French. Light on dialogue, they tend to rely on lingering shots of longing glances and exquisite mise-en-scène to reveal character; loosely plotted, they leave the impression less of a story than of a series of vignettes, of tiny moments freighted with great import.

These techniques are uniquely suited to the onscreen portrayal of adolescence. It almost seems churlish to complain that Water Lilies and Tomboy lack full structural coherence, because that’s arguably intentional. Growing up, after all, is not a tightly-plotted three-act hero’s journey with clear turning points, tidy linear progression through the successive stages of personal development, and a satisfying ending. It’s a messy and confusing struggle to find a place in the world, littered with incidents that may or may not ultimately be significant (with no way to tell the difference), and most of the time the morals make no sense.

Sciamma instinctively understands this, and the little stories she tells of growing up queer are given vivid life through her two greatest strengths as a filmmaker: her ability to coax marvelously deep and naturalistic performances out of her young actors, and her eye for a strikingly memorable little scene that perfectly encapsulates a moment of overpowering adolescent emotion – the normally boisterous Anne clutching at a lamppost and weeping in Water Lilies, for example, or Tomboy‘s Laure curling up on the couch, thumb in mouth, suddenly overwhelmed by an earlier humiliation.

Both films are carried on the remarkably expressive faces of their lead actresses. There are no voice-over monologues or expository conversations, but both Water Lilies and Tomboy present the inner life of their protagonists with stunning depth and rawness.

Movie poster for Water Lilies
The protagonist of Water Lilies is Pauline Acquart’s Marie, a quiet fifteen-year-old with a crush on Floriane, star of the local synchronized swimming team. Marie’s best friend Anne, meanwhile, has her eye on Floriane’s boyfriend François. So far, so Gossip Girl, but there is nothing over-dramatic or sensationalistic about the way this love quadrilateral plays out. Although the film’s primary focus is on the blossoming friendship between Marie and Floriane, there is a clear thematic through-line of what it is to grow up female in the patriarchy. Marie, Anne, and Floriane all embody different ways of being young women, and especially young women coming into their sexuality.

Anne, though less conventionally feminine than the other girls, is confidently heterosexual and determined to sleep with the boy she finds attractive. Marie is so eager to spend time with Floriane that she agrees to help her sneak out to meet François, and her yearnings for the lithe bodies slipping through the water are beautifully conveyed through moments such as the shot of Marie shifting, flustered, as Floriane unselfconsciously changes into a swimsuit right in front of her. Floriane herself, despite the reputation she cultivates (perhaps recognizing that denial would be futile – once branded a “slut,” a teenage girl is hopelessly trapped in a no-win morass of contradictory social pressures), eventually confesses to Marie that she has never actually had sex, and in fact is afraid to do so.

“If you don’t want to do it, don’t.”

“I have to.”

“Where did you read that?”

“All over my face, apparently. If he finds out I’m not a real slut, it’s over.”

Floriane recounts several instances of sexual harassment from men; when Marie has no similar stories to share, Floriane tells her, “You’re lucky… very lucky.” And perhaps to some extent she is. Perhaps, as Anne and Marie float fully-clothed in the pool at the end of the movie, while Floriane dances alone for the boys she’s not certain she even wants to be with, they are considering their good fortune: they, at least, are strong enough to defy the patriarchal dictates around female sexual behavior, to name and claim their desires (or lack thereof), to make mistakes and learn from them without being defined by them. Growing up female in this world is hard, but they know they will make it.
Movie poster Tomboy
Tomboy tells a very different story of growing up queer. Zoé Héran turns in a truly remarkable performance as androgynous ten-year-old Laure, who, on moving to a new neighborhood, is asked by the friendly Lisa, “T’es nouveau?” – “Are you new?” – in a way that genders Laure male. In that moment, Laure becomes Mikael, a boy who spends a happy summer among his new friends and his puppy-love girlfriend Lisa. For the duration of the summer, Laure is confined to home and family (well-meaning dad, heavily pregnant mom, hyper-femme little sister Jeanne), and Mikael is the face presented to the world.

Any ten-year-old lives in the present, and Mikael meets each challenge as it arises – sneaking away deep into the woods when the other boys casually take a pee break; snipping a girl’s swimsuit into a boy’s, and constructing a Play-Doh packer to fill it; swearing Jeanne to secrecy when Lisa unwittingly tells her about Mikael – even as it becomes increasingly clear to the viewer that eventually Laure’s parents must find out about Mikael. As loving as they are, they still exert some gender-policing of their oldest child: Mom’s delight at hearing that Laure has made a female friend (“You’re always hanging out with the boys”) might have been tempered if she’d remembered that “copine” can also mean girlfriend!

The relationships between the various children are superbly observed, and constitute reason enough to see Tomboy in themselves. The energetic activities of childish horseplay that give Mikael such joy in himself and in his body – dancing enthusiastically with Lisa, playing soccer shirtless, wrestling in swimsuits on the dock – are balanced by the many lovely domestic scenes demonstrating the closeness of Laure’s relationship with Jeanne. This is honestly one of the most moving and genuine cinematic portrayals of a sibling relationship in years, and after her initial shock Jeanne takes to the idea of Mikael like a duck to water, boasting to another child about her awesome big brother, and telling her parents that her favorite of Laure’s new friends is Mikael.

The parents themselves, unfortunately, are much less accepting of Mikael. The film’s ending is ambiguous, allowing for multiple readings of the exact nature of Laure’s queerness; indeed, the film has been criticized as “an appropriation of trans narratives by a cis filmmaker toward her own purposes”; but to me the ending is terribly unhappy. With deep breaths and with profound conflict on Héran’s preternaturally expressive face, the character is forced to claim “Laure,” the name and gender assigned at birth and not the ones of choice. The cissupremacy has won this round.

Though Tomboy is the better film, the two movies make excellent companion pieces. Between them they depict a range of queerness and explore a variety of strategies for growing up queer (and/or female) in a hostile world. And yet they offer no easy solutions, no cheap moralizing, no promise that it gets better. These films, and the characters they portray, simply are. And, in the end, isn’t that the one universal truth of queer people? There is no ur-narrative of queerness. There is no right or wrong way to be queer. We simply are.

———-
Max Thornton is a Bitch Flicks writer, blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.

"No man may have me": ‘Red Sonja’ a Feminist Film in Disguise?

Written by Amanda Rodriguez
True confession: 1985’s Red Sonja was my first lesbionic crush as a small child of four. I was in love with this strong Amazonian woman with her long red hair and big ol’ sword. It may be her fault that I wanted my dark brown hair to turn red and that red became my favorite color. I became completely obsessed with movies/TV shows starring women, especially badass babes, and I refused to watch anything that didn’t meet that criteria. As an adult, I’ve gone back to Red Sonja to see if it holds up to a feminist critique, and though it doesn’t always succeed, the film fares shockingly better than most contemporary action films starring women.
Firstly, Red Sonja passes the Bechdel test with flying colors. Though there aren’t many female characters in the film, Red Sonja speaks to most of them or they speak to each other, and they never talk about men. Not only that, but the great task of the film is to destroy the Talisman, an artifact that the “god of the high gods” used to create the earth that has since grown so powerful that it must now be destroyed or risk the destruction of the world itself. The Talisman can only be touched by women. The hierarchy in place dictates that priestesses protect the Talisman, but the High Lord (Kalidor played by Arnold Schwarzenegger) is the one who decides whether or not it is to be destroyed. This hierarchy certainly privileges men over women, but throughout the course of the film, men are repeatedly rendered obsolete (if not completely obliterated) when they encounter the Talisman. Men’s inability to touch the Talisman not only makes them impotent, but it makes women the major players who will determine the fate of the world. 
Badass barbarian babes Red Sonja and Queen Gedren go head-to-head over the Talisman
The characterization of Queen Gedren, the villainous lesbian played by Sandahl Bergman, is a bit more complicated. On the one hand, having a main character of a film be a lesbian is a pretty bold move, especially in a film that was made nearly 30 years ago. Gedren is shown to be a powerful, if tyrannical, figure who commands an army of men with ease.
In essence, Queen Gedren is the victim of a hate crime, and Red Sonja is the perpetrator. Gedren expresses her interest in Sonja, wanting them to “rule the world together.” Sonja rebuffs Gedren by slashing her across the face with a mace. The movie takes the side of Red Sonja here, claiming her “disgust was complete.” This somehow justifies the permanent disfigurement of another woman.
Queen Gedren wears a golden mask to conceal the scar left from Red Sonja’s attack
Gedren retaliates by burning Red Sonja’s house to the ground, having her soldiers gang-rape Sonja, and murdering her family. Of course, it’s difficult to feel sympathy for a woman of dubious intentions who shows up with a troop of armed men who end up raping Sonja and wholesale slaughtering her family. Interestingly, the original comic character upon which Queen Gedren is based was a man. The filmmakers deliberately altered the character into not only a woman, but a lesbian. I examined the implications of this exact cinematic choice in the character of Admiral Helena Cain from Battlestar Galactica. In both cases, the rendering of a lesbian as power hungry, brutal, and morally bankrupt indicates a fear of women in power, rendering them paradoxically weak and “womanish” slaves to their emotions as well as overly masculine.
And as usual, the evil lesbian is punished with death
In order to give Red Sonja the vengeance she so craves, a warrior goddess imbues her with mystical powers of strength and skill at weaponry. Though the idea of a female deity choosing a human woman as her champion has some “girl power” qualities, I’m disappointed that Sonja doesn’t earn her fighting prowess the way her male counterpart Conan does. Both characters are the creations of fantasy writer Robert E. Howard, but the cinematic version of Conan spends much of his youth enslaved, growing strong by pushing the Wheel of Pain around in circles before he is intensively trained for the gladiator arena with multiple disciplines of martial arts. The implication is that the only way a woman could be as physically tough and skilled as a man is through magic. However, Red Sonja has also taken a vow. “No man may have me unless he has beaten me in a fair fight,” she says. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Kalidor, of course, feels compelled to challenge that vow. He cannot beat her. They are equally matched and fight until they both collapse in exhaustion. Hoodoo influences aside, the cinematic depiction of male and female leads being equals on the battlefield is rare.     
Arnie muscle can’t fight the power of the Kentucky waterfall mullet
Many viewers have complained about the shortage of Arnie scenes in this film, but though he got top billing and is way more prominently featured in the movie poster (above), Kalidor is truly a supporting character. In fact, Kalidor takes a back seat to Red Sonja throughout their journey to Burkubane, the Land of Perpetual Night. He appears periodically throughout their quest, helping as needed, then eventually joining the group before the final showdown. Proof of the supporting nature of his role is in the fact that Arnold Schwarzenegger is never topless throughout this movie. Maybe that seems like a silly observation, but think about how many movies Arnie starred in during the 80’s where he showed his man boobies at some point. The answer is: all or most. The heroine is actually the lead in Red Sonja. She alone can destroy the Talisman. She alone defeats her enemy in single combat and saves the world. How often do you see that happen in a movie? 

All in all, Red Sonja was a formative film for me, a girl child of the 80’s. Its representation of the evils of lesbianism is inexcusable, but as a queer woman, I confess that I still love to watch the malevolent, beautiful Queen Gedren in action. It is, perhaps, sad that queer female characters in film and TV are such a rarity that I and so many others will take whatever we can get. Bottom line: The character of Red Sonja is strong, independent, and an expert in a traditionally male area of skill. She cannot be beaten by a man, she calls all the shots, and, in the end, she saves the world. It ain’t perfect, but I feel fortunate that the film was there to help shape my youthful feminist inklings.  
If you’re feeling frisky, check out my drinking game, Rye & Red Sonja on my Booze & Baking site. 

Rye & Red Sonja

———-