‘The Fosters,’ Sexuality, and the Challenges of Parenting While Feminist

In Stef and Lena’s case, they face the much more complicated question of how to talk to their kids about sex in a way that balances their feminist ideals of sex positivity with their parental need protect and discipline their kids. Two scenes in particular stand out to me as exemplars of the ways in which Lena and Stef strive to make sure their kids are not ashamed of their sexuality while simultaneously conveying the importance of being safe, ready, and responsible.

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This guest post by Stephanie Brown appears as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.


In my frequent lectures to friends about why they should take time out of their busy television (and real life) schedules to watch ABC Family’s drama The Fosters (2013-present), I usually refer to an exchange from the season two episode “Mother Nature” in which Stef (Teri Polo) and Lena (Sherri Saum) have an argument born out of a season-long simmering tension over their respective parenting roles:

Stef: Please stop making me feel like I have to the disciplinarian dad in this family.

Lena: That’s awfully heteronormative thinking.

The first time I watched this episode, I actually paused the show to process my excitement over the fact that a TV show ostensibly for teenagers included a casual reference to the social construction gender roles. Can you name many other shows on basic cable in which you could hear the word “heteronormative” being thrown around? Though, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Over its first three seasons, I’ve been impressed many a time with the range of complex issues thoughtfully addressed by The Fosters, from societal issues of racism, the broken foster system, addiction, and religion to familiar teenage issues like friendship, school, and rival dance teams.

The Fosters, if you aren’t familiar, centers around Stef and Lena and their brood of biological, adopted, and foster children. I will admit that the title of the series is a little (OK, very) on the nose, but I’m willing to forgive it a series that, as you may have gathered, features characters and stories that we don’t usually get to see on TV. The inciting incident for the pilot is that Stef, a cop, and her wife Lena, a high school principal, decide to foster Callie (Maia Mitchell) and her younger brother Jude (Hayden Byerly) after they have been through a series of abusive foster homes. The Adams-Foster family also includes Brandon (David Lambert), Stef’s son from her previous marriage to her police partner Mike (Danny Nucci), and twins Mariana (Cierra Ramirez) and Jesus (Jake T. Austin and Noah Centineo due to a Roseanne-like recasting situation) who were adopted by the family when they were toddlers.

The Foster-Adams family is a big, loving, messy group, which fits well into the network’s “A New Kind of Family” brand. Since ABC Family rebranded in 2006 with this new slogan, they have produced several engaging, interesting, underappreciated dramas. From Greek (which Entertainment Weekly once referred to as “better than it has any right to be”) to Switched At Birth, a show in which scenes are frequently shot completely in sign language, the network frequently spotlights characters and storylines you won’t find anywhere else on television. Of course, as with most pop culture associated with teenage girls, the network’s innovative storytelling is often banished to the world of non-serious TV (a fate that befell the WB, UPN and now the CW as well).

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Of course, as you might expect from a show that centers on a family with five teenagers, sexuality is a prevalent theme in The Fosters. Not only do the teenagers on the show deal with issues like having sex for the first time, sexual assault, the questioning of their sexuality, and love triangles, but refreshingly, Stef and Lena also deal with their own adult sex life. While same-sex couples are often desexualized (see Modern Family), Stef and Lena are given storylines that revolve around sex. In one such episode. Lena and Stef have frank discussions about the effect their busy lives and big family is having on their physical relationship and Lena’s fear of succumbing to “lesbian bed death” (2. 16). Stef and Lena not only talk about sex, they’re also shown cuddling post-sex, kissing, and generally showing physical affection for each other. Not only does the series treat sex as a multifaceted an integral aspect of adult relationships, it of course, also normalizes lesbian sex, which has historically either been ignored or relegated to the realm of the salacious male gaze.

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The other notably refreshing aspect of Stef and Lena’s on-screen parenting is the way in which they often have to navigate their dual roles as feminists and parents of teenagers. As a woman who doesn’t have kids, I can’t identify with complexities of parenting while feminist, but as a feminist I can absolutely identify with the complexities of living in the world while feminist. To this point, the series raises important questions about the often challenging task of applying our deeply held feminist ideals our messy, everyday lives. I know, for instance, that the unholy alliance between advertisers, the beauty industry, and patriarchal constructions of gender and beauty have combined to make me think twice before leaving the house without putting on mascara. And yet.

In Stef and Lena’s case, they face the much more complicated question of how to talk to their kids about sex in a way that balances their feminist ideals of sex positivity with their parental need protect and discipline their kids. Two scenes in particular stand out to me as exemplars of the ways in which Lena and Stef strive to make sure their kids are not ashamed of their sexuality while simultaneously conveying the importance of being safe, ready, and responsible.

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In the season two finale, “The End of the Beginning” (2.21), 13- year-old Jude confides in Lena that he and his friend Connor had made out in their tent on a school camping trip. When he breaks down crying out of a mix what is likely fear, relief, and guilt at having lied to his parents about what happened, Lena makes sure he understands that he has nothing to be ashamed for acting on his attraction to Connor, while reminding him that school-sanctioned trips are not the place to fool around. Similarly, in the summer finale of season 3, “Lucky” (3.10), Lena and Jude have the sex talk after Connor’s dad finds him and Jude making out in Connor’s room:

Jude: So, I’m not in trouble?

Lena: No. No, but you’re probably going to wish you were. I think it’s time we had the talk. I’m really happy that you found someone as wonderful and as kind as Connor. I really am. And when sex is shared between two people…

Jude: OK, OK. Connor and I are not having sex.

Lena: Oh, OK, good. Good. Um, so. When any kind of physical intimacy is shared between two people who care about it each other. It’s a beautiful thing. I mean, OK look, if I’m being honest, I don’t really know a whole lot about the logistics of two men being together, but I definitely want you know how to take care of yourself, and to be safe when the time comes. Which hopefully won’t be for quite some time.

Again, Lena walks the line between reassuring Jude that sex is wonderful and normal, while at the same time making it clear that she hopes that he waits until he is mature enough emotionally, physically, and mentally.

In Mariana’s case, the conversation with her parents happens after she has already had sex for the first time, though under less-than-ideal circumstances. Mariana had planned to have sex with her boyfriend, but when he asks her to wait until he gets back from his band’s tour, she takes his delay as a rejection and ends up hastily having sex with Callie’s ex-boyfriend (“Wreckage,” 3.1).

After harboring a guilty conscience for several episodes, Mariana finally comes clean to her moms in “Going South” (3.5). Throughout the initial conversation, Mariana is defensive of her choice as her moms struggle not to shame her while simultaneously trying to understand her decision.

Stef: Losing your virginity at 15 is a big deal, Mariana.

Mariana: I thought you guys were feminists

Lena: Don’t play that card. We said the exact same thing to your brothers.

Stef: I don’t understand why you think that this is some kind of race.

Mariana: Well I did, OK? And I’m not a virgin anymore, so.

Lena: Honey, I think what your mother’s trying to say is that we love you and we just want to understand your choices.

There is tension not only between Mariana and her moms, but also between Stef and Lena as they negotiate how to handle the situation as parents and feminists. Mariana, knowing her moms well, goes so far as to play the “feminism” card, seemingly daring them to make her feel ashamed of her decision so she can claim the moral high ground by calling out their hypocrisy. In a follow-up conversation, the issue is resolved as Stef and Lena reassure Mariana that she should not be ashamed of having sex or of making a mistake.

Stef: I wasn’t trying to shame you, Mariana. I wasn’t.

Lena: But sex is a big deal. Every time you have sex it’s a big deal. You’re sharing a vulnerable and precious part of yourself. You should always make sure you feel good about it.

Similar to Lena’s conversation with Jude, the goal of the “sex talk” isn’t to scare or shame their kids away from sex, but rather to encourage them to take sex seriously and wait until they’re ready. Stef and Lena also want to assure Mariana that they love her unconditionally, and that our mistakes don’t make us bad people, they make us human:

Stef: My love you know what. We all do things we wish we hadn’t. But we learn from them. And if we manage not to repeat them, man, it feels really, really good.

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The talks that Stef and Lena have with Mariana and Jude about sex are emblematic of the way the series treats a range of sensitive subjects with care, warmth, and complexity. As with every situation, Stef and Lena strive to ensure that their kids feel, above all else, unashamed, supported and loved. Of course, The Fosters is by no means a perfect show. It can veer into sentimentality and overwrought melodrama, but I will happily take being manipulated into tears (I was a fan of Parenthood, after all) when it comes with a side of progressive storylines about family, sexuality, and gender. As one of the few shows my mom, my sister and I all watch, The Fosters is a series I hope families across the country are also watching and enjoying together.

 


Stephanie Brown is a television, comedy, and podcast enthusiast working on her doctorate in media studies at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. You can follow her on Twitter or Medium @stephbrown.

 

LGBTQI Week: The Roundup

Here is a roundup of all the pieces we published during our LGBTQI Theme Week! Thanks so much to all the guest writers for making this such a successful and important week.

(Please note that some of these excerpts contain spoilers.)


The Birdcage: Where You Can Come as You Are by Candice Frederick

That’s the thing with The Birdcage. It’s more absurd to disguise yourself as someone else rather than to unveil your true self—gay, straight, or otherwise. In other words, Armand and Albert are quite “normal,” despite other people’s projections of them. They are well-off business owners of the hottest spot around, and virtual celebrities in their glamorous hometown. Their swanky penthouse apartment would be the envy of anyone who was lucky enough to visit. They have lover’s quarrels just like anyone in any normal relationship have.

Their abnormality, so to speak, lies in the fact that they are two of the more modern gay male characters, whose sole purpose isn’t simply to enter the scene as the punch line in a mostly straight guy-focused film. Sure, they’re hilarious, their dance moves are enough to make both Beyoncé and Britney Spears blush, and you need a scalpel to remove the amount of makeup Armand has on his face (as Val points out in the movie). But, most importantly, you know their stories. They’re not just the gag.

Side by Side: To Siberia, With Love by Marian Evans

And what about the homophobic legislative changes that the press release refers to? According to the notes on YouTube, on 16 November 2011 the Saint Petersburg Parliament began to discuss the possible introduction of administrative changes, which equated homosexuality, bisexuality and transgender with pedophilia, as well as impose a fine for public discussion of LGBT issues, treating it as ‘propaganda’.
The adoption of this law will have a detrimental effect on the whole of the Russian LGBT movement, including Coming Out, the only interregional LGBT organization Russian LGBT Network, the largest grassroots LGBT organization. The Side by Side LGBT Film Festival and other LGBT groups are headquartered in St. Petersburg. The proposed amendments violate both Russian and international law, as well as the European Convention of Human Rights. Organizations behind the protest campaign are Memorial, The Human Rights Council of St. Petersburg, Civil Control, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch as well as many others.

The Problem with GLBT Representation in True Blood and Lost Girl by Paul and Renee

When it comes to GLBT representation in the media, unless a television show is targeted specifically at the community, erasure continues to be the norm. Urban fantasy has moved from a small die hard audience to the mainstream and though we can regularly see shows about vampires, werewolves, fae, and ghosts, there are few GLBT characters and a dearth of decent representation.

HBO’s True Blood and Showcase’s Lost Girl have the most visible GLBT characters on television in North America, in terms of the urban fantasy genre. Though both shows have GLBT characters who have extremely high profiles and a reputation of being extremely GLBT friendly, there are certainly many problematic elements.

Swoon by Eli Lewy

Swoon reassesses history and the demonization of minorities by dissecting the identity politics of the 1920s, juxtaposing it with anachronistic elements belonging to a different era, like dial up telephones and remote controls. The point of this cinematic device is clear, though Swoon is set in crime-ridden Chicago of the 1920s in crisp black and white, the issues at hand are timeless. Gayness is still seen as something abnormal, an intrinsic default, by many. However, the modern-day parallel is too on the nose at times. The interspersed appearance of several drag queens falls flat, for example. In the 1920s it was unclear what was worse, being a murderer or a homosexual, and Kalin delves into this social frame of mind in a chillingly astute way.

Why You Should Love Flash Forward‘s Janis Hawk by TJ Murphy

The fabulous Christine Woods as Janis Hawk is only an auxiliary character; a B story to the show, and her love life is only a B story to her B story, if you will. The fact that Janis’ romance has the emotional turmoil to guide us from first-date jitters to steamy sexual tension and then on to disappointment and abandonment in such a short span of screen time is a testament to the character’s strength.

Indeed, Janis Hawk is not a fabulous character because she is a lesbian and that lends her some sort of diversity credential. She is a fabulous character because she is a layered one. In her fast-forward, she sees herself as pregnant, getting a sonogram, enamored with love for her unborn child. This startles her because 1) she has never wanted a child and 2) in order to have a child, it would seem that there would need to be a penis involved and she remarks dryly, “I don’t like them.”

“Limit Your Exposure”: Homosexuality in the Mad Men Universe by Carrie Nelson

Despite the complete lack of visibility of gay people in the early 1960s, there is a surprisingly high amount of explicitly queer characters on Mad Men. Only one—Salvatore Romano, Sterling Cooper’s Art Director—is substantially developed, but a half dozen gay characters have passed through the Mad Men universe over the course of four seasons. All of the characters are unique, with distinct personalities and significantly different approaches to navigating same-sex desire in a hostile climate. And while Mad Men steers clear of making profound statements about the nature of gay identity in the 1960s, the characterizations it does present do have a few interesting things to say about gender identity and the ability to out oneself. 

Cracks by Emily Campbell

Based on this knowledge alone (and possibly the same three plotlines that tend to occur in most boarding school movies), I personally would already be gritting my teeth in preparation for ninety minutes all about Di’s introspective self-loathing and her efforts to avoid the censure of her peers, the castigation of her teachers, and the denunciation of her desires. In most cases, I wouldn’t be far off the mark: usually, the character with the same-sex crush encounters some kind of scorn from others simply for daring to find another woman attractive, which then becomes the main source of conflict.

But that isn’t the case at all for the girls of the fictitious St. Mathilda’s. Di, instead, is admired for being daring. Already a natural leader, she has even more prestige by being the favorite and having the ear of the teacher all the girls idolize. 

But I’m a Cheerleader by Erin Fenner

But I’m a Cheerleader does fall into some traps. In portraying characters that are outrageous, there are lots of stereotypically flamboyant gay men. It’s less heinous than most portrayals in the mainstream, and seems to at least be trying to have a purpose. We see Mary’s son, Rock, in short shorts dancing around while ostensibly doing landscape work; living up to the most ridiculous and irritating gay stereotype. But, it’s supposed to be over-the-top to reveal the hypocrisy and absurdity of the camp. Also, while the film does a great job challenging the association of gender and sexuality, and presenting a gender spectrum, it doesn’t explore the spectrum of sexuality so much. Bisexuality is invisible.

But overall, the narrative is one that successfully challenges sexism and heteronormativity. Megan’s journey of falling in love and accepting herself looks normal compared to the antics of those who support the camp. It certainly feels more natural and provides a heart to the film that grounds it. 

Growing Up Queer: Water Lilies (2007) and Tomboy (2011) by Anna Rose

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

Kissing Jessica Stein by Carrie Nelson

Ten years ago, I saw Kissing Jessica Stein on a date with my first girlfriend. We liked the movie, but when we walked out of the theater, we laughed and said to each other, “Let’s not end up as dysfunctional as those two!” The irony did not escape us a few months later, when we broke up under eerily similar circumstances as Jessica and Helen, the film’s protagonists. But much like Jessica and Helen, our break-up was the start of our lifelong friendship. I’ve re-watched the film countless times throughout the last decade, and objectively, I don’t think Kissing Jessica Stein is a great movie. It’s filled with too many romantic comedy clichés, and for a film about queer women in a relationship, the film is awfully preoccupied with discussions about men. But in its best moments, it authentically depicts the awkwardness of new relationships, the confusion of unexpected sexual attraction, and the deep friendships that result from failed romances. Kissing Jessica Stein is flawed, but its sincerity and its willingness to address relationships between non-monosexual women keeps me coming back to it, over and over. 

The Good, the Bad, and the Other in Lesbian RomComs by Gwendolyn Beetham

I have a confession: I love bad lesbian romantic comedies. I once had a summer where I watched little else, delighting in the bad hair, worse puns, and silly sex scenes.

Before I begin, I want to offer a point of clarification. When I say that I enjoy “bad” lesbian romantic comedies, I do so because the unfortunate truth is that there is little else (see here). But it is also true that, until we have a bigger pot to choose from, we can’t be too picky.

The bone I’d like to pick here is not regarding bad dialogue or unrealistic sex scenes, but with the depiction of race, religion, and culture in lesbian romcoms to date. And with that, another disclosure: I am not a film critic or scholar. What I am is a queer feminist academic (and self-disclosed lover of bad lesbian film). And what I’ve observed in lesbian romcoms is a noticeable pattern of “othering” when it comes to the acceptance of homosexuality. 

The Kids Are All Right by Megan Kearns

The dialogue is sharp and witty yet problematic.  For what I had hoped would be a feminist film, the script was littered with assloads of slut-shaming, whore-calling and homophobic F-word dropping.  And while these terms do get tossed around in our society, no repercussions or backlash existed in the film; as if no social commentary was being made.  Granted, not every film has to make some grandiose statement.  Yet I expected better here, particularly as it was directed and co-written by a woman.  Luckily, it does pass the Bechdel Test as Nic and Jules often talk to each other about their marriage or about their children.

Frida by Amber Leab

While the film certainly highlights her work as the central element of her life, romantic relationships play a major role as well. Kahlo married the older and more established Mexican muralist, Diego Rivera, when she was 21, and they had a tumultuous relationship, divorcing and remarrying, and having plenty of extra-marital affairs. Their marriage, though, is a kind of model of an artistic pairing; both understanding the other’s devotion to painting and belief in “marriage without fidelity.” Kahlo is known to have had affairs with both men and women, and the film doesn’t gloss over her bisexuality, including a scene with a woman who both Kahlo and Rivera had been sexually involved with. Early indication in the film of her admiration of men and women comes in a somewhat playful party scene, in which Kahlo steps in and wins a drinking contest between Rivera and David Alfaro Siqueiros (played by Antonio Banderas) with the prize of a dance with the lovely Modotti (Judd). 

Revisiting Desert Hearts by Angie Beauchamp

It is a conventional romance, which is one of the reasons that it is so successful. As Jackie Stacey points out, “it uses the iconography of romance films: train stations, sunsets and sunrises, close-up shots, rain-drenched kisses, lakeside confessions, ‘I’ve never felt this way before’ orgasms.” It is those Hollywood conventions that conjure up shared memories of hundreds of heterosexual romances. Thus the filmmaker uses what are sometimes clichés as shortcuts to elicit particular emotions and reactions from the audience. Although the world of 1959 would certainly have been more challenging for these two lovers in the real world, the cinematic world Deitch created signals that there is an all-important happy ending coming up, a romantic Hollywood ending.

Trans-Girls and Gun Hill Road: Marking International Women’s Day For All Girls by Ileana Jiménez

Trans-girls of color need to be a part of how we mark International Women’s Day, especially in a year when the theme is “Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures.” Often absent from our discussions about girls’ education and girls’ empowerment programs, trans-girls remain invisible to our re-imagining of a dynamic and inclusive future for all girls.

That’s why today I screened the film Gun Hill Road (2011) for my high school students taking my LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender) literature and film class. Winner of the Best Acting Ensemble Award at the Ashland Independent Film Awards, Gun Hill Road features the story of a Puerto Rican family in the Bronx whose patriarch, Enrique, returns from prison only to learn gradually that his son, Michael, now identifies as a young woman, Vanessa.  

Transamerica by Stephen Ira

You don’t really have to watch this movie to know it’s going to be a real winner. Just read an interview with the director, then imagine what kind of movie a guy like this would make about a trans woman. He pulls out gems like, “I did a lot of research on transgender women, and most of them don’t look like guys in dresses.” Better yet, that quote is a response to a common query: why on earth cast Felicity Huffman? After all, Calpernia Addams appears in a brief scene, along with a couple of other transgender actresses. Why not cast Calpernia? It’s a mystery. Tucker puts forth that he did his “due diligence” upon discovering that there were “a couple transgender actresses in Hollywood”–what a shock. He also insists that the “couple of transgender actresses” he found “were closeted.” Considering that out transgender actress Calpernia Addams is clearly out, transgender, and in fact in his movie, the mind of Duncan Tucker is simply not to be understood. I will not try. Instead, let’s talk about the real reason Felicity Huffman plays this role.

I Need a Hero: Gus Van Sant’s Milk by Drew Patrick Shannon

More than a mere summary of events, Milk seeks to illuminate some of the depths of Milk’s character, which are left mostly untouched by The Times of Harvey Milk. And Penn’s performance is a marvel. But I’m left at the end of the film still not entirely knowing what made this man tick. I’m slightly in awe of him, I’m humbled by his passion, I’m drawn to his politics, I’m certainly attracted to him and can easily see myself getting talked into bed by him without much effort, but I still feel separate from him, as though his core has not been exposed. Perhaps this is more than a biopic can do, but my sense is that this is the film’s goal, and on that count it doesn’t quite deliver. The fault is neither Penn’s nor Van Sant’s nor the script’s—my guess is that capturing someone as mercurial as Harvey Milk on film is an impossibility.

Bully by Carrie Nelson

I found Kelby’s story particularly poignant, given the pervasiveness of LGBT bullying today. More than any other subject profiled, Kelby expresses a love for her life and a determination not to let bullying determine her future. Though she experiences immense homophobic abuse, she refuses to hide in the closet, and she forms friendships with other outsiders so that she’s never truly alone. Kelby’s story is one of perseverance, and it’s deeply inspiring. I was also awed by Ja’Meya’s story. Her experience highlights the significant disparities in punishment that exist in our justice system. Though Ja’Meya did bring a loaded gun onto a school bus, she did not hurt anyone, and she did it out of self-defense. Yet her bullies have not been penalized for hurting her, and she faces 45 felony charges. Ja’Meya’s story is by far the most complex, and to me it was also the most upsetting – it is so painful to watch her locked away just because she was bullied and didn’t know how to handle it. Ja’Meya’s experiences show the horrifying reality that even when victims do try to defend themselves, they still end up being the ones punished. 

Short Film: Tech Support by Amber Leab

Tech Support is a short film written and produced by Jenny Hagel. The film has won several awards–including Best Lesbian Short at the Hamburg International Queer Film Festival (Germany), the Audience Award at the Pittsburgh International Lesbian and Gay Film Festival, and Best Short Film at the Fresno Reel Pride LGBT Film Festival–and has been an official selection at 16 film festivals.

Everything You Need to Know About Space: 10 Reasons to Watch (and Love!) Imagine Me & You by Marcia Herring

The film realistically introduces the idea that not all women who marry men 1) stay married to them, 2) stay heterosexually identified, and 3) are happy in those marriages. I recently showed the film to a married lesbian couple, one of which had previously been in a relationship with a man. She told me it was refreshing to see that, to see her story reflected on screen. In addition to questioning her sexuality, Rachel also struggles with the expectations of her mother, and then her husband to procreate. Coop brings up the question of whether sex is better after marriage, under the expectation that it continues.

The fact is that real marriage, whether or not one of the parties involved is questioning their sexual orientation, has problems. Through Luce’s profession, we see several people, including Heck, use flowers as a kind of healing balm for the myriad troubles of life. But as Heck discovers, if something actually is wrong, flowers won’t do a damn thing. 

“A Boy in a Box”: Reading Bisexuality in Daphne: The Secret Life of Daphne du Maurier by Amanda Civitello

Quite apart from any aesthetic considerations (relative austerity of sets, for example), the film’s main flaw lies in the narrative decisions made by the screenwriter: instead of telling a story about a bisexual writer, the film ultimately tries to argue that du Maurier only found happiness with women, who in turn inspired her writing. In so privileging the importance of the ‘Venetian’ (lesbian) relationships in du Maurier’s life, the film creates a false image of du Maurier’s sexuality. She made it plain that she felt as if she were “two spirits”, and sought relationships with men and women. Daphne is a missed opportunity to portray a bisexual woman during a pivotal, transitional period between the relative sexual freedom of the 1920s and 1930s and the post-World War II repressive, prudish attitude toward non-heteronormative identities that persists to this day. The film would have been far more interesting had it sought to portray du Maurier’s “boy in a box” more truthfully. 

The Kids Are Terrible, The Sex Is Worse by Nino Testa

The film wasn’t just lauded as a cinematic achievement, it was also celebrated as a “positive” and “honest” representation of quotidian lesbian life in an age where gay marriage dominates any discussion of LGBT people. In addition to multiple Academy Award nominations—for acting, writing, and best picture, but not, interestingly enough, best director—the film has 93% positive reviews on rottentomatoes, so pretty much everyone who gets to decide that movies are good told us that this one was worthy of our time. Many of the reviews focus on the film’s supposedly groundbreaking “realistic” depiction of lesbians. (I guess these people have never seen The Hunger.) Eric Snider from film.com refers to the characters as “realistically portrayed.” A.O. Scott from the New York Times writes: “The performances are all close to perfect, which is to say that the imperfections of each character are precisely measured and honestly presented.” Tom Long of the Detroit News called it “one of the year’s most honest and endearing films.” (“Honest” is the key word in all of these reviews. We might want to think about what it means to call a work of fiction “honest.” To say that it is “honest” means that it confirms, in some way, our worldview; it proves something we think to be true.) And then there is this gem from The Wall Street Journal, which really sums up the self-congratulatory, progressive reviews of this film: “The basic joke here, and it’s a rich one, is that the dynamics of gay marriages differ little from those of straight marriages.” This is, of course, the ultimate compliment that the mainstream press can make about queer people—that they are just like straight people. Judging from the film, what seems to be at stake is whether or not gay married couples can be as unhappy and passive aggressive as straight married couples, thus making them more deserving of legal protections. 

“All the Pieces Matter”: Queer Characters of Color on The Wire by Megan Kearns

When people talk about The Wire, usually with awe and reverie, they discuss the sharp dialogue or the nuanced characters or the statement on race and the criminal justice system. And all of that is amazing. But I think what gets lost is that people forget The Wire’s depiction of queer characters and ultimately its statement on LGBTQ rights.  
The Wire portrayed complex, fully developed queer characters, something you don’t typically see in pop culture. With my absolute two favorite characters, Detective Kima Greggs and Omar Little – a black lesbian woman and a black gay man – The Wire confronted assumptions and stereotypes of heteronormativity.

Sleepaway Camp by Carrie Nelson

The shock of Sleepaway Camp’s ending relies on the cissexist assumption that one’s biological sex and gender presentation must always match. A person with a mismatched sex and gender presentation is someone to be distrusted and feared. Though the audience has identified with Peter throughout the movie, we are meant to turn on him and fear him at the end, as he’s not only a murderer – he’s a deceiver as well. But, as Tera points out, the only deception is the one in the minds of cisgender viewers who assume that Peter’s sex and gender must align in a specific, proper way. Were this not the point that the filmmakers wanted to make, they would have revealed the twist slightly earlier in the film, allowing time for the viewer to digest the information and realize that Peter is still a human being. (This kind of twist is done effectively in The Crying Game, specifically because the twist is revealed midway through the film, and the audience watches characters cope and come to terms with the reveal in an honest, sensitive way. Such sensitivity is not displayed in Sleepaway Camp.)

Pariah by Carrie Nelson

Pariah, in its simplest terms, is a lesbian coming-of-age story. Yet it is unlike any other lesbian coming-of-age story I have ever seen, largely because the film is not about a young woman’s initial discovery or self-acceptance of sexual identity. When we meet Alike (played masterfully by Adepero Oduye), she already is well aware of and comfortable with her sexual orientation. The film does not start from a place of Gay 101; there are no scenes where Alike expresses sexual confusion or the desire to be straight. It operates under the assumption that our heroine is out (at least to her friends and high school English teacher) and proud. 

Stranger in a Queer Land: How But I’m a Cheerleader and Susan Sontag Defined My Trembling Identity by Eva Phillips 

But to fully appreciate why this film is the most important piece of queer cinema for me, it’s necessary to ponder for a moment its Sontag-ian merit. That’s right, Susan Sontag, or S-Squared as nobody calls her. Even typing it I acknowledge how flimsily pretentious it seems to throw her name around–it’s like the fledgling English major who arbitrarily wedges Nietzche into every conversation, or that one guy who insists on wearing tweed and skulks in the shadows of your dinner party only to utter things like “You don’t know jazz. You can’t until you listen to Captain Beefheart. He teaches you to HEAR sound.” But Sontag, a stellar emblem of queer genius, and the extrapolations she makes on the aesthetic of “camp” are particularly fitting when unpacking Cheerleader and why, to this day, it still holds such a prized place in my heart. Sontag was a woman who had her fingers in many pies (which is not necessarily meant to be innuendo, but in her case the tawdry joke is also applicable), and her theories like that on the role of modern photography on cultural memory solidify her as one of the preeminent minds of the 20th century. She also had a longtime romance with Annie Leibovitz. And she had an affinity for bear suits. 

The “Q” Stands for What? by Ashley Boyd

The Closer began with a definitive statement in the pilot episode in which a lesbian living as man is murdered by her unsuspecting girlfriend. The writers frame homophobia as a negative attribute and position Brenda as a supporter of LGBT equality. Throughout its seven seasons, the series has included gay characters, gay actors, and gay-themed storylines that include issues of homophobia, anti-gay violence, and gay activism.

The cast created a PSA about GLSEN’s Safe Space Campaign in response to the high number of gay teen suicides. Prominent gay male actors like Peter Paige (Queer as Folk) and The Closer’s own Phillip. P. Keane who portrays Buzz Watson (character’s sexuality is unknown) appear in the series. Most importantly, The Closer Creator, James Duff, is gay. The last fact makes Gavin’s introduction all the more interesting. 

Women, Empowerment and LGBT Issues in Scott Pilgrim vs. The World: Strange and Nonexistent by Marla Koenigsknecht

Homosexuality is also portrayed weirdly in this movie, in the case of Wallace and Roxy. Wallace (the roommate) has the power to turn straight men around him gay, and several times does the audience see this happening. It makes being homosexual seem like a fad–which seems rather insensitive. The end of Roxy’s fight is rather odd as well. Ramona tells Scott to touch the back of Roxy’s knee, and it makes her orgasm to death (literally, she blows up). That, and when Scott says, “You had a sexy phase?” about their relationship reminds me too much of how men find lesbians hot together and makes me want to gag.

Fire: Part One of Deepa Mehta’s Elements Trilogy by Amber Leab

Depicting a lesbian relationship on film fifteen years ago proved hugely controversial, and Fire was immediately banned in Pakistan, and soon after pulled from Indian cinemas for religious insensitivity. Although the film twice passed the Indian censor board–they requested no editing, and no scenes removed–violent protests caused movie houses to stop showing the film.

Albert Nobbs Review: Exploring Constrictions of Gender & Class by Megan Kearns

I perpetually worry audiences watch period films with dangerously confining gender roles and then sit back thinking, “Phew, we’ve come so far!” Yeah, no, we so haven’t. Albert Nobbs raises so many thought-provoking questions. Why is the male gender the more “desirable” gender in society? What does it say about a society where half its population has a mere two options for their lives? How can women take charge of their own lives amidst confining gender norms? But therein lies my problem with the film. It provides no conclusions, the answers remain elusive. 

It’s a slow and unassuming movie that at times moves at a methodical pace. But the more I pondered, the more I realized the film possessed many intricate layers. Throughout we see women’s perspectives and hear women’s voices. Albert Nobbs contains not one but two powerful female actors with other women in memorable supporting roles; a film rarity. Neither Albert or Hubert are defined by their gender or sexuality. They both transcend gender.

“I’m Not Running, I’m Choosing”: Pariah and Gender Performance by Megan Kearns

By the end of the film, we see Alike’s clothing change again. Adopting some of Bina’s style fused with her own – perhaps to convey that she’s learned from her heartache or it may be her acknowledgement of her sexual transformation – she wears scarves and earrings with jeans. No longer shadowing Laura and no longer conforming to her mother’s gendered expectations, Alike rejects the gender binary of butch and femme, a symbolic balance of her identity, a unison of femininity and masculinity.

 

LGBTQI Week: "I’m Not Running, I’m Choosing": ‘Pariah’ and Gender Performance

Warning: spoilers ahead!!
“Who do you become if you can’t be yourself?” Pariah, my absolute favorite film of 2011, tackles that question. 
Written and directed by Dee Rees and produced by Nekisa Cooper, the powerful Pariah tells the story of Alike (Adepero Oduye in an astounding performance), a 17-year-old black lesbian in Brooklyn. Studious, artistic and sensitive, Alike is a writer who knows who she is but hides her sexuality from her family. We so rarely see positive portrayals of black women and queer women on-screen. Here, we have the privilege to see both. With subtlety and grace, it’s an exquisite and achingly beautiful female-centric coming-of-age film about a young woman discovering her sexuality and asserting her identity. 
Carrie Nelson already wrote an articulate and intelligent review of the award-winning film. You should seriously go read it! But I want to touch on a few points that particularly struck me while watching, particularly about gender performance and identity. 
Most films don’t address teenage sexuality. Sure they may objectify women or poke fun at raging hormones. But they don’t often explore how teens’ discover their sexuality, especially women’s sexuality, people of color’s sexuality, or queer sexuality.
Throughout the film, we receive visual cues to Alike’s gender performance. When we first see Alike in a club, she’s wearing a loose men’s jersey, baggy jeans and a baseball cap. She’s emulating her butch best friend Laura (Pernell Walker). On the bus home, Alike removes her hat and shirt, revealing a form-fitting top. She puts on earrings. All for her overprotective, lonely and overbearing mother Audrey (Kim Wayans). When she’s around her mom, Alike wears stereotypically feminine clothing. Flouncy skirts, dresses, snug blouses – all clothing that “shows off her figure” like her mother wants. Her mother buys her these clothes, knowing full well that Alike abhors wearing them. Yet refusing to accept her daughter, she tries to orchestrate her daughter’s identity.
Alike’s mother can’t handle the fact that her daughter is a lesbian. Audrey shows a colleague at lunch a fuchsia sweater she bought for Alike. She tells Arthur (Charles Parnell), Alike’s father, that she’s “tired of this tomboy thing she’s doing.” Yet Alike tries to express herself, telling her parents that the sweater “isn’t me.” Alike’s identity contradicts her vision of her daughter that she imposed on Alike. Alike’s father is more protective of her as she’s a “daddy’s girl.” Yet he refuses to admit or see the signs that Alike might be a lesbian. Between the two is Alike’s sister Sharonda (Sahra Mellesse) who knows about her sexuality and loves her regardless. 
Whenever Alike leaves home, she transforms herself into the identity she chooses. At school, we see her rush to the girls’ bathroom to change. She adopts a more masculine appearance to coincide with her gender non-conformity. Laura buys Alike a strap-on to have sex with a woman. But Alike’s uncomfortable wearing it (it’s white, it pinches her) and ends up throwing it away. 
For Alike, both sets of clothing – the hyper-masculine and hyper-feminine – are a costume. She rebels from the princess wardrobe her mother wants for her by going to the other extreme, exploring if it’s who she is. But neither appearance encapsulates Alike. Both the butch and the femme identities are disconnected from her personality. 
“Alike’s a woman who knows she loves women, and is sure in that, but her struggle is how to be. Her struggle is a more nuanced struggle of gender identity within the queer community. She’s not the same person that (her friend) Laura is, neither is she this pink princess that her mother wants her to be. She falls somewhere in between. Finding the courage to carve out that space is her journey.” 
Audrey suspects her daughter is a lesbian or at the very least is attracted to women. But she tries to derail Alike’s sexuality. Audrey forces Alike and the charismatic Bina (Aasha Davis), the daughter of a work colleague and one of Alike’s classmates, to spend time together in a vain attempt to separate Alike from hanging out with Laura, who’s own mother has disowned her for being a lesbian. Alike tells her mother that nothing is going to change, Audrey replies, “God doesn’t make mistakes,” as if homosexuality is a mistake. But Audrey’s plan backfires as Alike and Bina bond over music and share a growing attraction to one another. 
Drawn to one another, Alike and Bina have sex. Despite their shared intimacy, Bina rejects Alike. Breaking Alike’s heart and devastating her, Bina tells her she’s not “gay-gay” and asks her to keep their encounter secret. We see that Bina possesses sexual fluidity yet is afraid to commit to a woman, perhaps due to society’s heteronormative standards. Or maybe she doesn’t want to commit to anyone, male or female. Or maybe she’s an insensitive asshole. 
Whatever Bina’s motivations, Alike’s heartbreak ushers in her refusal to bury her identity any longer. Amidst a huge fight between her parents, Audrey angrily tells Arthur, “Your daughter is turning into a damn man right before your eyes.” Alike tells her parents she’s a lesbian, which enrages her mother. Audrey hits her repeatedly, her father trying to restrain her, after Alike finally confirms what her mother already knew. 
Alike turns to Laura (who tries again to reach out to her mother after she earns her GED) for solace and support. Both women are able to commiserate as friends and as lesbians rejected by their mothers’ gendered expectations. 
By the end of the film, we see Alike’s clothing change again. Adopting some of Bina’s style fused with her own – perhaps to convey that she’s learned from her heartache or it may be her acknowledgement of her sexual transformation – she wears scarves and earrings with jeans. No longer shadowing Laura and no longer conforming to her mother’s gendered expectations, Alike rejects the gender binary of butch and femme, a symbolic balance of her identity, a unison of femininity and masculinity. 
Alike divulges her feelings through spoken word. Her poem at the end of Pariah is hauntingly stunning (making me weep uncontrollably), echoing her painful yet ultimately freeing journey towards self-acceptance: 
“Heartbreak opens onto the sunrise for even breaking is opening and I am broken, I am open. Broken into the new life without pushing in, open to the possibilities within, pushing out. See the love shine in through my cracks? See the light shine out through me? I am broken, I am open, I am broken open. See the love light shining through me, shining through my cracks, through the gaps. My spirit takes journey, my spirit takes flight, could not have risen otherwise and I am not running, I am choosing. Running is not a choice from the breaking. Breaking is freeing, broken is freedom. I am not broken, I am free.” 
Pariah shattered my heart with its aching beauty, uplifting my soul. We are allowed a window to witness her journey and self-discovery. Through her wardrobe and poetry, Alike eventually expresses herself as a lesbian in the way that she wishes. Alike insists she’s not running, she’s choosing. While she means this literally, there’s  meaning beneath the surface. No longer running from who she is, Alike chooses to embrace her identity. Watching Alike discover and assert herself is beauty, poetry in motion.

LGBTQI Week: ‘Albert Nobbs’ Review: Exploring Constrictions of Gender & Class

Mia Wasikowska and Glenn Close in ‘Albert Nobbs’

This review by Staff Writer Megan Kearns previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on February 2, 2012.
“You don’t have to be anything but what you are.” Hubert Page (Janet McTeer) tells the titular Albert Nobbs played by Glenn Close. But in a time where women possessed no status, no rights – when your only options were as a wife, servant or prostitute – how could you be yourself if you yearned for another life?

Haunting and sad, Albert Nobbs tells the tale of a woman who disguises herself as a man in order to survive in 19th Century Ireland. A “labor of love” and a “dream fulfilled,” Oscar nominee Glenn Close, who co-wrote the screenplay, tried to get Albert Nobbs made into a film for 30 years. Adapted from the play, which Close starred in on Broadway in 1982, is itself adapted from George Moore’s short story. Moore’s books were controversial “because of his willingness to tackle such issues as prostitution, extramarital sex and lesbianism.” Rodrigo Garcia’s poignant film Nine Lives, which Close also appeared in, showcasing 9 vignettes of women’s lives, is one of my favorite films. So my expectations were high for Albert Nobbs.

Was this a “jaw-dropping performance” by Glenn Close? She was absolutely outstanding. I didn’t realize at first just how good of a job she did until I realized I completely forgot that it was Glenn Close! I’m used to seeing her play strong, confident or assertive women. Here, Close plays a character shy, awkward, guarded and desperately lonely. She melts into the role. She’s as straight-laced and tightly wound as the prim and proper world around her. 

It might be easy to initially dismiss Close’s performance as merely donning make-up and male garb, forever sporting a stoically immutable countenance. But Close completely lets go in Albert’s few aching outbursts of emotion. With a child-like naïveté, Close played Albert as an “homage to Charlie Chaplin.” About the role, she said:
“Albert was particularly tricky because there’s always the question of how much should show on her face because a lot of it is somebody who’s totally shut down, who doesn’t even look people in the eye. Servants weren’t supposed to look people in the eye, but she’s an invisible person in an invisible job. And then her whole evolution is slowly being able to look up – the first time she really looks someone in the face is after she’s told Hubert her story and then she kind of looks out to her dream.”

Janet McTeer and Glenn Close
Albert’s world begins to change after she meets outgoing house painter, Hubert Page (McTeer). In her well-deserved Oscar-nominated role, Janet McTeer exquisitely steals every scene. Hands down, she’s the absolute best part of the film. I couldn’t wait until her magnetic presence appeared on-screen again. McTeer, who plays the qualities of the character, not the gender, exudes a soulful swagger and charismatic kindness. She radiates confidence, warmth and a bold assertiveness. McTeer, also playing a woman in disguise, possesses a strong sense of self, the complete polar opposite to Albert who has no idea who she is as a person. About her character, McTeer said:
“I tried to be, on the one hand, very male, by which I mean large and expansive and confident and sitting on the back of the heels, as it were, and on the other hand I wanted [my character] Hubert to have as many as what we consider to be the loveliest of the female qualities — empathy, compassion, kindness. I wanted Hubert to be a really good mixture of both.”

It’s the embodiment of these qualities that makes Hubert unique. But we also see this mélange in Albert. Helen (Mia Wasikowska) tells Albert, “You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” What makes Albert so strange? Is it that she treats women with thoughtfulness, kindness and equity stereotypically lacking from the other men Helen met?

After Albert meets Hubert, she realizes she could have a life of companionship. SPOILER -> Hubert is married to a woman she adores and a beautiful scene between the two portray a tender, loving and devoted couple. <- END SPOILER Hubert gives Albert hope for a different future: a life free from the shackles and confines of loneliness. In a bittersweet scene, Hubert and Albert walk along the beach together. Albert in a dress, the first she’s worn in 30 years, runs along the beach. Reminded of her old identity, in a rare expression of emotion, she’s unconstricted, buoyed by freedom and sheer joy.

Many movies contain cross-dressing plotlines for comedic effect. But not a lot exist that focus on gender-bending from a dramatic angle. Boys Don’t Cry and Transamerica explore the lives of a trans man and woman while Yentl and The Ballad of Little Jo both echo Albert Nobbs as they feature women who choose to live as men in order to survive or pursue their dreams. An act of violence as a young girl catalyzes Albert to live as a man to protect herself and survive.

Critics have focused on the gender components. But class, an equally important theme, threads throughout the entire film. Albert Nobbs depicts how women contended with and endured poverty. We witness the stark dichotomy between the lavishly wealthy clients and the servile wait staff in the hotel. Servants in the Victorian Era were to be invisible, never looking the upper class in the eye. With her downcast eyes, Albert remains dutiful. Yet she begins to aspire for more. Albert has been saving her money all her life and hopes to open a shop of her own.

The film portrays relationships and courtship as an economic contract. When Albert courts the coquettish Helen (Wasikowska), Helen expects and asks for all sorts of gifts and trinkets. SPOILER -> We also see class play out after Helen gets pregnant. Women needed men in order to survive financially. Women who give birth to children out of wedlock were punished fiscally, fired from their jobs. Husbands provided fiscal security. <- END SPOILER Gender and class coalesce. You realize Helen’s gender and station in life condemn her situation. Albert and Hubert would never be able to attain their dreams (and Hubert her independence) had they retained their identity as women.

I perpetually worry audiences watch period films with dangerously confining gender roles and then sit back thinking, “Phew, we’ve come so far!” Yeah, no, we so haven’t. Albert Nobbs raises so many thought-provoking questions. Why is the male gender the more “desirable” gender in society? What does it say about a society where half its population has a mere two options for their lives? How can women take charge of their own lives amidst confining gender norms? But therein lies my problem with the film. It provides no conclusions, the answers remain elusive. 

It’s a slow and unassuming movie that at times moves at a methodical pace. But the more I pondered, the more I realized the film possessed many intricate layers. Throughout we see women’s perspectives and hear women’s voices. Albert Nobbs contains not one but two powerful female actors with other women in memorable supporting roles; a film rarity. Neither Albert or Hubert are defined by their gender or sexuality. They both transcend gender.

The tragic story of Albert Nobbs lingered in my memory long after I left the theatre. Its exploration of female friendship, lesbian love, class and poverty, gender roles and a woman’s self-discovery, truly make it a rare gem. 

———-
Megan Kearns is a Bitch Flicks Staff Writer. She’s a feminist vegan blogger and freelance writer living in Boston. Megan blogs at The Opinioness of the World, a feminist vegan site she founded in 2010 which focuses on gender equality and living cruelty-free. She writes about gender and media as a Regular Blogger at Fem2pt0, a site uniting social issues with women’s voices. Her work has also appeared at Arts & Opinion, Feministing’s Community Blog, Italianieuropei, Open Letters MonthlyA Safe World for Women and Women and Hollywood. She earned her B.A. in Anthropology and Sociology from UMass Amherst and a Graduate Certificate in Women and Politics and Public Policy from UMass Boston. You can follow all of  Megan’s opinionated musings on Twitter at @OpinionessWorld

LGBTQI Week: ‘Fire’: Part One of Deepa Mehta’s ‘Elements Trilogy’

This review by Editor and Co-Founder Amber Leab previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on November 21, 2011.

Fire (1996)
Fire is the first film in Deepa Mehta’s Elements Trilogy (Earth and Water follow). Made in 1996, it focuses on a middle-class family in present-day (funny how I still think of the 1990s as “present day,” despite the global changes of the past fifteen years) India.

The film centers around two married couples–Ashok (Kulbhushan Kharbanda) and his wife Radha (Shabana Azmi), and Ashok’s brother Jatin (Javed Jaffrey) and his wife Sita (Nandita Das)–who run a carryout restaurant and video store, and who share a home with the brothers’ mother, Biji (Kushal Rekhi), and their employee, Mundu (Ranjit Chowdhry). Jatin and Sita are newlyweds, but we quickly learn that Jatin loves another woman (Julie, a Chinese-Indian woman who has perfected an American accent and dreams of returning to Hong Kong), and married a “traditional Indian woman” out of pressure from his brother and mother.
The film offers the womens’ perspectives on the conflicts between desire and duty, and between tradition and the realities of a modern India.

As with almost any film centering on family drama and dynamics, we see the tensions simmering beneath the surface as the film focuses on the two women and their lack of fulfillment from their marriages. Mehta, in the DVD’s Director’s Notes for Fire, states,
I wanted to make a film about contemporary, middle-class India, with all its vulnerabilities, foibles and the incredible extremely dramatic battle that is waged daily between the forces of tradition and the desire for an independent, individual voice.

More than 350 million Indians belong to the burgeoning middle-class and lead lives not unlike the Kapur family in Fire. They might not experience exactly the same angst or choices as these particular characters, but the confusions they share are very similar–the ambiguity surrounding sexuality and its manifestation and the incredible weight of figures (especially female ones) from ancient scriptures which define Indian women as pious, dutiful, self-sacrificing, while Indian popular cinema, a.k.a. “Bollywood”, portrays women as sex objects (Mundu’s fantasy).

To capture all this on celluloid was, to a large part, the reason I wanted to do Fire. Even though Fire is very particular in its time and space and setting, I wanted its emotional content to be universal.
Sita learns very early in her marriage that her husband is in love with Julie–he doesn’t hide the relationship from her–and she seeks solace and comfort from Radha. Radha hasn’t been intimate with her husband in 13 years; when Ashok learned she was unable to conceive, he sublimated his desires (and began channeling a good bit of their income) into religious study with his swami. The friendship between Sita and Radha soon evolves into a sexual relationship, and when the women are found out by their family, they must decide whether to obey tradition or follow their hearts.

Radha and Sita
The film explores what traditional marriage has done to alienate these women–particularly Radha–from their own desires. The desire for intimacy and sex, sure, but also the desire to live their lives for themselves, rather than for their husbands. My reading of the film is certainly from a Western perspective, however, and you could argue that the film is about discovering desire (rather than reconnecting to it after a period of alienation), since the traditional, conservative Hindu/Indian culture didn’t allow much–if any–space for individual desire for women. Sita embodies changes in the society, as she comes from a traditional family, but is more critical of the traditional rituals and more in touch with her body and her desires. (When we first meet her, for example, she playfully tries on her new husband’s pants and dances around their bedroom, unashamed of her body.) Sita is also the one who initiates a physical relationship with Radha.

Depicting a lesbian relationship on film fifteen years ago proved hugely controversial, and Fire was immediately banned in Pakistan, and soon after pulled from Indian cinemas for religious insensitivity. Although the film twice passed the Indian censor board–they requested no editing, and no scenes removed–violent protests caused movie houses to stop showing the film. In “Burning Love,” Gary Morris writes,
The reaction of some male members of the audience was so violent that the police had to be called. “I’m going to shoot you, madam!” was one response. According to Mehta, the men who objected couldn’t articulate the word “lesbian” — “this is not in our Indian culture!” was as much as they could bring themselves to say. 

It isn’t only the tangible pleasures of a lesbian relationship that created such heated reactions, though that’s certainly the most obvious reason. This beautifully shot, well-acted film is a powerful, sometimes hypnotic critique of the rigid norms of a patriarchal, post-colonial society that keeps both sexes down.

The controversy surrounding the film may have superseded the film itself–which is beautifully shot, heartbreaking, and even darkly comedic at times. Fire contains so many elements that I love in film: strong female characters, an exploration of complex issues that is never oversimplified and that never leads to individuals being labeled good or evil (although they certainly behave in good and/or evil ways), and immersion into a culture that isn’t entirely familiar to me. Speaking to a Western audience, Mehta has stated that one of her goals in filmmaking is to “demystify India,” its culture and its traditions. Fire complicates our understanding of a traditional patriarchal culture, and throws into sharp relief the ways these traditions impact women in particular.

Again, here’s Mehta on Fire:

We women, especially Indian women, constantly have to go through a metaphorical test of purity in order to be validated as human beings, not unlike Sita’s trial by fire.

I’ve seen most of the women in my family go through this, in one form or another. Do we, as women, have choices? And, if we make choices, what is the price we pay for them?

***

There is a ton of information online about Fire. Here are some selected articles for further reading:

———-

Amber Leab is a writer living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a Master’s degree in English & Comparative Literature from the University of Cincinnati and a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature & Creative Writing from Miami University. Outside of Bitch Flicks, her work has appeared in The Georgetown Review, on the blogs Shakesville, Opinioness of the World, and I Will Not Diet, and at True Theatre.


LGBTQI Week: Women Empowerment and LGBT Issues in ‘Scott Pilgrim vs. The World’: Strange and Nonexistent

This is a guest post by Marla Koenigsknecht. 
*As a note, I am not including anything about the comic series, only the movie.
*Synopsis from imdb.
 
!!SPOILER ALERT!!

Probably most women can say they’ve had their share of “evil exes.” Sure, your past may come back and bite you in the butt, BUT I’m also sure it’s never come back in the form of super-powered henchmen with quirky names. I’m also sure it’s never happened in the style of an arcade game, either. Well, that’s what happens in Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. And while watching Michael Cera kick butt is super entertaining, and we all think Cera’s shrimpy (yes, shrimpy) voice is adorable, the movie doesn’t do women any justice. I find this to be Cera’s most misogynistic role because his character is…well…an asshole to women.

It all begins with 22-year-old Scott and his new high school girlfriend, Knives Chau. He says that he likes dating someone 5 years his junior because it’s simple. However, everyone else advises him to break up with her (he’s also only using her to get over his ex who cheated on him). But that doesn’t stop Scott, who begins cheating on Knives once he meets Ramona—a funky, hipster chick. Before he can begin dating Ramona, he must defeat her seven evil exes in fights to the death. The movie is filled with tons of funny quips and witty, fast-paced jokes—and I’ll be honest, I loved it the first time I saw it. But the more times I watched it and thought about it, I realized that Scott Pilgrim is too much of a “guys’” movie—something rather disappointing, in my opinion.

Knives Chau (played by Ellen Wong)
I’ll start with Knives. Not only do they repeat the fact that she’s only 17 over and over, but it’s definitely apparent she worships the ground Scott walks on; yeah, so I dated an older guy at a young age. It’s exciting—but Knives doesn’t have enough self-respect to leave a guy who doesn’t respect her. She even becomes obsessive and stalker-ish, changing her looks to look more like Ramona and trying to make him jealous. She is portrayed as crazy, and we’re supposed to roll our eyes and laugh. She even says, “I hate her stupid guts!” like Ramona ruined her love life, when Scott’s the one stringing Knives along in his game. Ramona didn’t know that Scott was cheating on Knives with her and shouldn’t be blamed for stealing Scott when he lacked the nerve to break up with Knives. It’s just another way to pit girls against one another, acting like Scott is the victim, and therefore okay for him to hurt a vulnerable teen because he’s in love with Ramona. Following this scene, one of the evil exes “punches the highlights” out of Knives’ hair because she tries to stand up for Scott, and it’s clear then. No one respects this poor girl. And her lack of respect from others is reflected from her own lack of self-respect. The biggest issue I have with this is that she never finds her own self-respect either. It is never resolved in the way I would like it to be, which would be Knives finding self-respect on her own. Instead it’s given to her from Scott (more on this later).

As for Ramona, I personally love the character at first. She seems really strong, but then after Ramona’s exes arrive she’s just a girl in a man’s world. In this movie, Ramona isn’t the love of someone’s life, but a prize to be won. It is even stated that they are “controlling the future of Ramona’s love life.” She waits around while Scott fights these battles for her, when really all she should have to do is tell them to stop. At one time she says, “I’ve dabbled in being a bitch.” So, standing up for herself means she’s a bitch, and that means she has to wait for Scott to kill all her exes before she can be “free” of her past baggage and over-controlling exes. In the end fight, her most recent ex Gideon Graves is shown petting Ramona like a dog (before he eventually fights Scott). Before the fight, Scott “gained the power of self-respect.” But why does Scott need to be the one to gain self-respect? Why not Ramona? She deserves to get rid of her own baggage, not have Scott kill it for her. She even stands up and fights Gideon, but says, “Let’s both be girls.” She can only fight someone when the person is a “girl” (figurative or not). Again, girls against each other. Which leads me to my next point.

Gideon (Jason Schwartzman) and Ramona (Mary Elizabeth Winstead)
Roxy is one of Ramona’s exes, when she was “a little bi-curious.” Before the fight actually begins, Scott finds it hard to believe that Ramona dated a girl, even though his roommate Wallace is gay. He doesn’t question that. Maybe Scott has this idea in his mind that Ramona is this perfect, exactly-what-he-wants, girl. But does that mean that a “perfect girl” is one with no previous baggage, especially in the form of another woman? His disbelief in her bisexual past indicates a lack of freedom for women. Perhaps Scott is threatened by her sexual past, because it might mean he as a man is not needed to fulfill her expectations. Especially because Ramona is a decently strong woman when we first meet her. Wallace is free to explore other men, but Ramona is unable to have a bisexual past without it being laughed at. At this point, before Roxy hits Scott, Ramona steps in. So, she can fight against a woman, but not a man? And who doesn’t love a good cat fight?! (sigh, rolls eyes, gag, etc.) My personal favorite is that Ramona grabs Scott and uses him as a puppet to hit Roxy because Scott says, “I don’t think I can hit a girl….They’re soft.” Roxy yells, “Fight your own battles, lazy ass!” to Scott. Oh, the insufferable irony. To Scott, the man who is fighting Ramona’s own battle at that moment. As if Ramona couldn’t do that the past how many years? Of course not, she’s a girl.

Homosexuality is also portrayed weirdly in this movie, in the case of Wallace and Roxy. Wallace (the roommate) has the power to turn straight men around him gay, and several times does the audience see this happening. It makes being homosexual seem like a fad–which seems rather insensitive. The end of Roxy’s fight is rather odd as well. Ramona tells Scott to touch the back of Roxy’s knee, and it makes her orgasm to death (literally, she blows up). That, and when Scott says, “You had a sexy phase?” about their relationship reminds me too much of how men find lesbians hot together and makes me want to gag. Her battle scene just seems like a comic relief fight from the real action. If you compare Roxy’s fight to Lucas Lee’s (another evil ex) fight, you’ll notice several differences (ignore the snowflakes and Spanish subtitles in the second video). First, you’ll notice the obvious gender differences: the lowered voice, built body and facial hair for Lucas…the smaller body, pigtails, and higher voice for Roxy. It makes you aware of which one to take seriously. Second, in Lucas’s fight, Ramona sits and watches. And third, notice that Ramona gives a back story to Lucas (she does that for all of the ex-boyfriends), and Roxy doesn’t because being a lesbian is a joke here.

Everyone is okay at the end of the movie. And only because Ramona’s exes are dead and her bad past is defeated (courtesy of Scott, not herself), he and Knives have reconciled, and Scott gets the girl. But only because Scott apologized. And while I like that he did find some kindness to apologize, I’m still irked by this. I don’t think the girls in this movie should have needed Scott to apologize just to feel okay in the end. I wish they would’ve been given more empowerment to find respect for themselves without Scott–especially because these girls could have been portrayed as strong and able to stick up for themselves.

Honestly, I like that this movie attempts to show triumph over mistakes, but I hate that it requires Scott’s self-respect before the women’s. Because I feel the women have been wronged most in this movie, I wish that they had found their own self-faith before he did. Personally I have found in relationships—and in life—that strength comes from my own faith in myself and then having faith in another person. I wish the women of Scott Pilgrim had the same empowerment Scott had earned. That they wouldn’t need Scott’s self-assurance to have their own. That they would’ve been able to say, “Screw you, Scott!” or “Screw you, deadly exes!” or “Screw you, misogynists!” I mean… it’s all the same, right?

———-
Marla Koenigsknecht is junior at Michigan State University. She is an English and Professional Writing student. She also is the Assistant Editor of The Offbeat, a literary magazine on MSU campus.

LGBTQI Week: The "Q" Stands for What?

This is a guest review by Ashley Boyd.

Note: I use the term queer as an umbrella term for all sexual and gender minorities with an acknowledgment that queer is a historically pejorative term.

SPOILER ALERT! This article includes spoilers for Season 7 of TNT’s The Closer.

The cast of The Closer

As The Closer’s Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson (Kyra Sedgwick), a tough Southern Belle from Georgia, returns to LAPD headquarters this coming July, she will be joined, again, by new and popular recurring character Gavin Q. Baker III (Mark Pellegrino), a lawyer Johnson hired after falling into legal trouble over the murder of a gang member in her custody. The Hollywood Reporter describes Gavin as a “gay, former city attorney-turned-partner in a private law firm.” Pellegrino, known for his work on Being Human, Lost, and Supernatural offers a skillful portrayal of the intelligent yet arrogant lawyer, which fans have positively reviewed.

Mark Pelligrino

The Closer Creator, James Duff, has been a vocal advocate for LGBT representation on television. At a Power Up dinner in which he was honored, Duff had the following words to say:

I know how hard it is to get stories about gay people, lesbians, and transgender and bisexual people on the screen, and people need to see these stories. Not just young gay people, not just young people in the LGBT community but straight people need to see these stories too. They need to know—they need to know that we are a part of America.

According to GLAAD’s Where We Are On TV 2011-2012 Report an annual report about diversity on television, there are 28 LGBT series regulars on mainstream cable and 26 recurring characters. GLAAD credits TNT with three LGBT characters with The Closer having one recurring character: Dr. Morales played by Latino gay male Jonathon Del Arco. Despite its low visibility count, several producers and actors of the series support LGBT rights.

The Closer began with a definitive statement in the pilot episode in which a lesbian living as man is murdered by her unsuspecting girlfriend. The writers frame homophobia as a negative attribute and position Brenda as a supporter of LGBT equality. Throughout its seven seasons, the series has included gay characters, gay actors, and gay-themed storylines that include issues of homophobia, anti-gay violence, and gay activism.

The cast created a PSA about GLSEN’s Safe Space Campaign in response to the high number of gay teen suicides. Prominent gay male actors like Peter Paige (Queer as Folk) and The Closer’s own Phillip. P. Keane who portrays Buzz Watson (character’s sexuality is unknown) appear in the series. Most importantly, The Closer Creator, James Duff, is gay. The last fact makes Gavin’s introduction all the more interesting.

Despite being likeable, Gavin is a problematic character. Because Gavin has never verbalized his sexuality, viewers must rely on clues to decipher his sexual orientation. This is not a difficult task because the series gives quite obvious (and stereotypical) markers of Gavin’s sexuality.

Since the writers do not have Gavin specifically state that he is gay, the question becomes, how do we as viewers understand Gavin as a gay man? Dr. Morales speaks of his boyfriend on several occasions, but Gavin is more of a mystery. How do we know that he is, in fact, gay at all? If one did not read news stories about Pellegrino joining the cast and the introduction of his character, how would we even know? Do we all know a gay person when we see one? Of course not. We may think we do, but really we don’t. More often than not we draw these conclusions based on assumptions that derive from stereotypes about gay people and gender assumptions.

When I say that we rely on stereotypes I mean that we associate certain behaviors, attributes, and characteristics with different genders, like women like to shop and men like their tools (very simplistic, I know). Women and men act (or perform) their gender through how they dress, how they walk, how they converse with others, and so on. These gendered ways of living become expectations for those in the gender group and lead to assumptions about those who present as one gender or another. For lesbians and gay men, the assumptions are reversed. For example, one assumption—albeit a stereotype—about gay men is that they’re feminine. Because we rely on stereotypes to inform our opinions of others, especially groups in which we do not belong, we begin to expect members of this group to behave in the way we assume.

For television and film, we rely on writers to tell us who these people are, and we rely on actors to embody them and to make their experiences believable and relatable. As socialized creatures in an increasingly visual culture we have learned how to read people and to read characters. It’s become second nature that we don’t even realize we’re doing it. We learn at a young age how to differentiate between genders, races, and ages. Granted, this is becoming increasingly more difficult and complicated, but we still do it.

Gavin

Viewers first meet Gavin in the episode “Home Improvement” when Brenda and her husband, Fritz, meet him for a consultation. Gavin presents as a confident, no-nonsense lawyer with a great knack for interior office design (see hand sculpture). His charm and wit are as attractive as his tailored suits. Pellegrino provides the character with deliberate hand gestures and feminine mannerisms along with a slow and snarky speech pattern.

Thus far, Gavin performs stereotypical gay male cues that are so recognizable that they’ve become cliché. It’s almost like they’re saying “We don’t need to tell you that he’s gay because it’s written all over him!”

After a tense yet humorous exchange among the characters about Gavin’s $10/minute fee and $25,000 retainer, Brenda and Fritz rush out of the office with Brenda angrily quipping to Fritz, “Gavin Q. Baker. The “Q” stands for quick!” Although I usually like double entendres, this one is quite puzzling because of its potentially derogatory insinuation. (“Q” as in “quick” OR “Q” as in “queer?”)

Interestingly, there is a concerted effort to physically create this character. Greg La Voi, the series’ costume designer describes, in detail, on his Fashion File blog the inspirations for Gavin’s attire and accessories, such as his signature brooches, diamond pinky rings, and fashionable scarves (as suggested by Duff). La Voi does put a significant amount of work in each of The Closer characters, but Gavin is of particular interest here in that his dress marks a sense of femininity.

As much as I like Gavin I can’t help but be critical of this portrayal. My skepticism about the progressive nature of this character grew larger after the episode “Star Turn” in which a popular teen idol’s (obviously inspired by Miley Cyrus) father dies. The teen pop star’s hit song “Daddy, Say Yes” rises in the charts after her father’s death. Gavin stops by Brenda’s precinct for a visit and fawns over the case:

Gavin: Oh, wait, wait, wait. You’re still working on that case? [singing] Daddy, say yes!

Brenda: Yes.

Gavin: [excitedly] Oh my God. Is that not the worst video ever? I’ve watched it fifty times.

Sigh. A gay man giddy over a teen pop star is so stereotypical that I don’t even know why they did it.

Let’s recap, how do we know Gavin is gay? He uses feminine hand gestures. Check. Sometimes he wears traditionally feminine accessories. Check. He likes teen pop stars. Check. Said that he’s gay? Don’t recall. If a gay man equals an effeminate man than how are we progressing in our understandings of gender and sexuality? This is not to say that effeminate gay men do not exist or that effeminate gay men on screen (and in real life should) “tone it down.” What I am essentially critiquing are associations: the automatic association between gender performance and sexual orientation.

Maybe we’ve evolved as viewers. Do we not need clues anymore? Maybe LGBT people have been fully accepted into U.S. society? Are big announcements such as Ellen DeGeneres’ no longer necessary? On the other hand, are small clues enough? Is it possible to be too subtle?

We all want to come to a place in which a person’s sexual orientation (and gender, race, class, nationality, age, ability, etc.), does not determine their status in society. However, what clues have we grown comfortable with that might actually prevent us from reaching our goal?

Those in the dominant group are often comfortable with these types of characters because they fit the box. We like the box. The box is our safe place. We know what is in the box and the box does not talk back. But when marginalized group members do not fit, we question their authenticity (e.g. “You don’t look gay? Are you sure you’re gay?”). What if a gay person doesn’t fall into a stereotype and never discloses? What do you do then as a viewer? Assume they’re straight? Hold assumptions?

Nevertheless, this characterization is compelling considering that Duff is gay and strongly advocates for LGBT visibility. Why would Duff introduce a character like Gavin that reinforces preconceived notions about gay men? This reminds me of the brouhaha about Will & Grace’s Jack McFarland, a character heavily criticized for his flamboyancy, but interestingly, portrayed by gay male actor, Sean Hayes. Some gay men might be annoyed with yet another feminine-performing gay male on television while others may find empowerment and positive visibility in a character like Gavin. Who knows! Representations of marginalized groups are always a double-edged sword. Everyone wants to be depicted “accurately” and without prejudice or stereotypes, yet when attempts are made, there’s still criticism (like this article).

I began this essay with a strong criticism of Duff’s decision to create this character, but now I am actually quite intrigued about the possibility of queer characters on television that never say they’re queer.

As the final 6 episodes of the series premieres in July, we will see more of Gavin as Brenda’s legal troubles continue. I wait with excitement to see how The Closer says goodbye to its lovely gay lawyer.

———-

Ashley Boyd has an MA in Women’s Studies. Her thesis focused on the representations of reproductive justice, race, and violence in the reimagined Battlestar Galactica series. Currently unemployed, Ashley spends most of her time applying for jobs, watching television, reading, and writing. She is currently working on publishing chapters of her thesis and landing that dream job!

LGBTQI Week: Stranger in a Queer Land: How ‘But I’m a Cheerleader’ and Susan Sontag Defined My Trembling Identity

This is a guest review by Eva Phillips.

It might come off as a bit absurd, even an effrontery to some, to suggest that a film in which RuPaul must resist the titillation of a faux-fellatio on a pitchfork and bigotry is gleefully bellowed in the hate mantra “Silly faggots, dicks are for chicks!” is the very film responsible for one of my most pivotal coming-of-age realizations. But rarely do we get to choose the moments or media that have the greatest impact upon us. And such was the case with But I’m A Cheerleader.

What was most profound and even revitalizing for me the first time I watched—quite literally hunkered in my basement as if I was viewing a contraband edition of Cannibal Holocaust (for which I would provide a link, but I think the title alone is umbrage enough to the nature of its content)—But I’m A Cheerleader was not that it featured a panoply of beautiful shots or striking cinematography, nor that it was steeped in witty yet complex banter. Before it seems like I’m vilipending the film, I certainly don’t want to underplay it’s merit—it’s terribly amusing, sneakily provocative, peculiarly heartwarming, and, OH, YEAH, IT HAS RUPAUL AND CATHY MORIARITY IN THE SAME DAMN CAST. However, the film instantly became my most cherished nugget of queer cinema for reasons that pertained to the movie’s machinations in my life outside the film, and it’s hand in my self-construction of a queer identity. But more on that shortly. The film’s diegesis is certainly worth exploring and even worth praising. Jamie Babbit–who would later go on to direct such Sapphically scintillating films as Itty Bitty Titty Committee (a film which also appealed to my naughty nursery rhyme sensibilities, though I was disappointed it was not some salacious re-envisioning of a Dr. Seuss universe)—emerged from her short film cocoon to direct, and conceive of the story for, Cheerleader, her first feature length released in September of 1999. And, my, what an ostentatiously-hued emergence it was. Centering around the foibles and frustrations of an ostensibly “normal” (or, heteronormal, as the film exploits) high school cheerleader Megan, the narrative rests on the peculiar, raspy-throated charm of Natasha Lyonne.

Let’s pause for a moment to give due reverence to Miss Lyonne. Yes, she’s had her fair share of indecencies aired as fodder for the public eye in the years since Cheerleader and American Pie. But if ever there was an underappreciated icon for blossoming queer sexuality, it’s Lyonne, at least for my money. She’s got the vibe of that moderately unbalanced, untraditionally gorgeous upstairs neighbor who knows every Dario Argento film that you encounter when you first arrive to Chicago, downtrodden but full of potential, who fearlessly flirts with you and subtly teaches you how to be audacious and open in your amorous and creative passions. (Sometimes I go on run-on tangents when I imagine my future….). She made the gravely-voiced-teen rad long before Miley Cyrus and her “I’ve-been-chain-smoking-for-30-years-even-though-I’m-17” droning. And she has a Rufus Wainwright song penned in her honor. Come on. Give the girl a shot.

But I digress. Megan, who lives in an ultra-saturated world—filmed brilliantly with an idyllic tint that gives the perfect every-town suburbia a feel of being all too artificially ideal—begins to show the terrible, if not purposefully clichéd, symptoms of Lesbianitis. She ogles her fellow coquettish cheer-mongers, she loathes the kiss of her quintessentially-90s-studly beau (although, his frenching finesse leaves a lot to be desired), her locker is adorned with images of other gals, and, if those weren’t sufficient red flags, she’s a Melissa Etheridge enthusiast (Yes. It’s perfectly acceptable to grimace. Subtlety is not a bosom buddy to Babbit or screenwriter Brian Wayne Peterson. But that’s sort of why I love it.). After being confronted by her disconcerted parents (cast as the drabbest Norman Rockwell caricatures imaginable) and haughty, disgusted friends (wait a minute, is that Michelle Williams??? Could this movie be any more deliciously 90s??), Megan is shuttled off to a reparative therapy camp—which, with it’s flamboyant heteronormative decadence, must’ve been a throwback to Miss Lyonne to her days on the Pee Wee’s Playhouse set—despite her refusal that she is “plagued” by homosexuality. Megan is brusquely welcomed by the equally sandpaper-toned Cathy Moriarty as the Hetero-Overlord Mary Brown, and told she must accept her sexuality so she can begin to overcome it. From then on much merriment at the expense of heteronormative parodying ensues: Megan meets her fellow recovering homosexuals—including the blithe Melanie Lynskey (and heavens knows I adore Kate Winslet, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of anguish that Lynskey’s career didn’t flourish as brilliantly as Winslet’s post-Heavenly Creatures)—goes through a series of absurd therapy treatments, including Edenic-Behavioral 101; and falls in love with Graham, played by the utterly incomparable Clea DuVall. Without delving much deeper into a plot analysis, let’s just say the film has the gayest of all endings. Think Cinderella in the back of a pickup-truck.

But to fully appreciate why this film is the most important piece of queer cinema for me, it’s necessary to ponder for a moment its Sontag-ian merit. That’s right, Susan Sontag, or S-Squared as nobody calls her. Even typing it I acknowledge how flimsily pretentious it seems to throw her name around–it’s like the fledgling English major who arbitrarily wedges Nietzche into every conversation, or that one guy who insists on wearing tweed and skulks in the shadows of your dinner party only to utter things like “You don’t know jazz. You can’t until you listen to Captain Beefheart. He teaches you to HEAR sound.” But Sontag, a stellar emblem of queer genius, and the extrapolations she makes on the aesthetic of “camp” are particularly fitting when unpacking Cheerleader and why, to this day, it still holds such a prized place in my heart. Sontag was a woman who had her fingers in many pies (which is not necessarily meant to be innuendo, but in her case the tawdry joke is also applicable), and her theories like that on the role of modern photography on cultural memory solidify her as one of the preeminent minds of the 20th century. She also had a longtime romance with Annie Leibovitz. And she had an affinity for bear suits.

But her groundbreaking insights on the style of camp, (a fully fleshed out adumbration of which can be found here) are most manifest in Cheerleader. A sensibility that is dependent on the grandiose, on double-entendres, and on the flamboyant satire of normalcy, camp is a rampant in Cheerleader. RuPaul teaches outdated masculinity adorned in the skimpiest shorts imaginable (and rightfully so, with those sensational gams); Cathy Moriarity barks, in one of the film’s many remarkably self-reflexive moments, “You don’t want to be a Raging Bull Dike!”; Megan woos Graham with a saccharine cheer at the mock hetero-graduation. Furthermore, the film’s style and wardrobe was inspired by John Waters, the reigning Emperor of camp and anemic mustaches. But what left such an indelible mark on me was the film’s campiness and the world of artifice it created that gave me a safe space to explore my identity. Certainly, it was ludicrous at the moment. But often times the preposterousness of it made it much more provocative to me. Moreover, the films tinkering with style and double meanings lit a spark in my fourteen-year-old cinema-phile self that led to my passion for film criticism, for the Mulvey’s and Sontag’s of the world that could offer me a deeper appreciation of cinema, and most critically, ignited the feminist fervor in me that has served me so well to this day.

But attesting to the notion of safe-space, outside of the film’s beloved campiness, But I’m a Cheerleader is my unrivaled top piece of queer cinema because it was the first film I felt secure watching, enjoying and acknowledging images of sexuality that I had previously abnegated. My existence up until that point had been one of self-imposed exile in a very dismal, skeleton littered closet, in which I, like Megan, vehemently denied the glimmers of “alternative attractions” that flittered (and by flittered I mean stampeded) across my mind daily. I firmly believed that if I were to witness any acts of same-sex canoodling or affection, I would instantly be emblazoned with some Scarlet-Letter-esque marker, so that all my peers would know I’D SEEN THE GAY AND NOW I WAS ONE OF THEM (fear not, I’ve evolved). The closest I came to queer cinema prior to Cheerleader was when I superimposed my own ideations on particular scenes in the film Nell in a hotel room in Florida, only to have to flee said hotel due to a hurricane besieging the coast. I thought the elements were literally chasing the queerness out of me. But then I mustered up my courage and watched But I’m a Cheerleader. And then I watched it again. And again. And so on. And so forth. And I had the epiphany that I was not meant to be punished for queerness, and that there was a place, even if I felt my feelings to be ineffable, where I could watch and develop my own sensibilities without the fear of judgment that I so often quaked in the shadow of. I give Cheerleader absolute credit for this. So, sure, it’s brash and occasionally tacky. Sure, the soundtrack has the insufferable whine of so many 90s queer-cinema-compilations. But it’s got moxie and balls (neon, tightly-clad balls). And it gave me the queer sanctuary I so desperately needed at fourteen.

And if nothing else, YOU GET RUPAUL.

———-
 
Eva Phillips may or may not be the unapologetic leader of the Milla Jovovich Adoration Army. When she is not studying every one of Madam Jovovich’s films, she is earning her degree in English at the University of Virginia. With an affinity for film, obsessive alphabetizing, and listening to infomercials for possible auguries of the impending apocalypse, she also cherishes writing poetry and convincing everyone of the merits of rescuing physically handicapped felines (of which she’s adopted several). She is not ambidextrous and is damn bitter about that, too.

 

LGBTQI Week: Pariah

Pariah (2011)

This review by Monthly Guest Contributor Carrie Nelson previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on January 25, 2012
I enjoyed many films in 2011. All of my favorite films of the year, however, were the ones that unnerved me with their honesty, sticking in my thoughts long after the end credits rolled. One of those films was Martha Marcy May Marlene, which I’ve already written about, and another was Pariah.

Pariah, in its simplest terms, is a lesbian coming-of-age story. Yet it is unlike any other lesbian coming-of-age story I have ever seen, largely because the film is not about a young woman’s initial discovery or self-acceptance of sexual identity. When we meet Alike (played masterfully by Adepero Oduye), she already is well aware of and comfortable with her sexual orientation. The film does not start from a place of Gay 101; there are no scenes where Alike expresses sexual confusion or the desire to be straight. It operates under the assumption that our heroine is out (at least to her friends and high school English teacher) and proud. 

Alike and Laura
Instead of a traditional coming out story, Alike’s journey is about finding her place within her community. At home, her mother (Kim Wayans) encourages her to dress femininely and act ladylike. (One of the most heartbreaking scenes in the film involves Alike’s discomfort wearing a pink blouse that her mother was so excited for her to try on.) Outside of home, her friend Laura (Pernell Walker) teaches her how to convincingly present as butch and suavely seduce femmes. Alike is able to navigate both worlds, but she does not feel fully comfortable in either of them. The film follows her as she shatters the assumptions others make about her and determines what she needs to do to be truly happy.

What impressed me the most about Pariah was its ability to depict the uncomfortable awkwardness of being a teenager. Though the film is very specific in its geographic and cultural location, Alike’s need to find her place in her social circle is universal. When she accompanies Laura to clubs, she is unable to comfortably flirt with other women. She tries hard to adopt a butch identity, but it never feels right. Early on in the film, Alike experiments with packing, but she quickly determines that a phallus is not what she needs. It is not until she meets Bina (Aasha Davis, who I’ve loved since she played Waverly on Friday Night Lights), the daughter of her mother’s friend, that Alike finds herself in a situation where she can present her sexuality and gender identity in the most authentic way, without pretense or expectation. And although Alike’s relationship with Bina turns in a surprising direction, the experience is necessary for her to begin to see the variety of ways in which she can be a queer woman.

I appreciated the diversity of queer women depicted in Pariah. From women who self-identify as lesbians to women who simply enjoy being intimate with other women, from women who have masculine or feminine gender presentations to women who cannot be so easily labeled, Pariah shows that there is no single way to be queer. Mainstream depictions of gay identity tend to reinforce stereotypes, but while Pariah does feature women in traditional butch-femme pairings, such relationships are not the only ones presented, nor are they shown to be the “right” way to be gay. All of the characters and relationships in Pariah have flaws, but all are also beautiful in their own ways. I was continually struck by the film’s honesty as I watched it, and the diversity of women and relationships presented is an excellent example of that honesty.

Audrey and Alike
Audrey, Alike’s mother, is one of the most fascinating characters in the film. Rather than a one-note antagonist, as parents of gay teens are often depicted on-screen, Audrey struck me as a woman who truly wants to connect with her daughter but does not understand how. She seems to know all along that Alike is gay, but she believes that if she buys her enough feminine clothing, dictates her friendships and talks to her about boys, Alike will be straight. This behavior only distances Alike from her mother, and understandably so – it is not the behavior of a tolerant or accepting parent. But there is never a doubt that Audrey truly loves her daughter and wants what is best for her, a fact that makes the climax of the film so difficult to watch. I only wish the film had been able to flesh Audrey out more and spend more time with her character. One of my favorite scenes is one of Audrey sitting in the break room at her office, mutually ignoring the rest of her colleagues who are eating together and chatting. Audrey only breaks out of her shell when a friend approaches her and asks her about the new clothing she bought for her daughters. The implication seems to be that Audrey is materialistic and a bit of a snob, but we do not find out more about that. I wish we had – it might have provided more insight into why she adopts such a conventional view of female gender identity and sexuality.

One cannot discuss Pariah without acknowledging the fact that it is a film about queer women of color made by a queer woman of color. It’s rare that women of color are given the opportunity to tell their own stories, and in a year during which The Help is receiving enormous critical praise and attention, it is disheartening that a film like Pariah is receiving so much less notice. Pariah is a vitally important film, and its story and performances are as strong as you will find in any other film from 2011. At the time of writing this review, Academy Award nominations have yet to be announced, and I am hoping that, when they are, Pariah and its creator, Dee Rees, will receive their well-deserved recognition. Whether or not they do, I encourage you to seek the film out in theatres. It may not be the flashiest or most technically elaborate film of the past year, but it is without question one of the most honest. 
———-
Carrie Nelson is a Bitch Flicks monthly contributor. She was a Staff Writer for Gender Across Borders, an international feminist community and blog that she co-founded in 2009. She works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit, and she is currently pursuing an MA in Media Studies at The New School.

LGBTQI Week: Sleepaway Camp

This piece by Monthly Guest Contributor Carrie Nelson previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on October 24, 2011.

Sleepaway Camp (1983)
On the surface, Sleepaway Camp isn’t much different than your average 1980s slasher movie. The comparisons to Friday the 13th can’t be ignored – Sleepaway’s Camp Arawak, much like Friday’s Camp Crystal Lake, is populated by horny teens looking for some summer lovin’, and is the site of a series of gruesome and mysterious murders that threaten to shut down the camp for the whole summer. But unlike Friday the 13th and other slasher films, the twist in Sleepaway Camp isn’t the identity of the murderer, and the final girl isn’t exactly who you’d expect.
(Everything that follows contains significant spoilers. Read at your discretion.)
The protagonist of Sleepaway Camp is Angela, the lone survivor of a boating accident that killed her father and her brother, Peter. Years after the accident, her aunt Martha, with whom she now lives, sends her to Camp Arawak with her cousin Ricky. Angela is painfully shy and refuses to go near the water, which leads to the other campers tormenting her incessantly. Ricky’s quick to defend her, but the bullying is relentless. One by one, Angela’s tormenters are murdered in increasingly grotesque ways (the most disturbing involves a curling iron brutally entering a woman’s vagina).
So come the end of the film, when it’s revealed that Angela is the murderer, there’s no particular shock – after all, why wouldn’t she want to seek revenge on her tormentors? But the fact that Angela is the murderer isn’t the point, because when we find out she’s the murderer we see her naked, and it is revealed that she has a penis. We quickly learn through flashbacks that it was, in fact, Peter who survived the boat accident, and Aunt Martha decided to raise him as a girl. The ending is profoundly disturbing, not because Peter is a murderer or because he is a cross-dresser (because his female presentation is against his will, it isn’t accurate to call him transgender), but because he has been abused so deeply by his aunt and his peers that he can’t find a way to cope.

Unlike most slasher movies I’ve seen, I wasn’t horrified by Sleepaway Camp’s body count. Rather, I was horrified by the abuses that catalyze the murders. Peter survived the trauma of watching his father and sister die, only to be emotionally and physically abused by his aunt and forced to live as a woman. At camp, he’s terrified of the water, as it reminds him of the tragic loss of his family, and he’s unable to shower or change his clothes around his female bunkmates, as they might learn his secret. But rather than being understanding and supportive, the other campers harass Peter by forcibly throwing him into the water, verbally taunting him and ruining his chance to be romantically involved with someone who might truly care for him. Not to mention, at the start of camp, he is nearly molested by the lecherous head cook. Peter may be a murderer, but he is hardly villainous – the rest of the characters are the real villains, for allowing the bullying to transpire. 
The problem, of course, is that the abuse of Peter isn’t the part that’s supposed to horrify us. The twist ending is set up to shock and disgust the audience, which is deeply transphobic. Tera at Sweet Perdition describes the problem with ending as follows:

But Angela’s not deceiving everybody because she’s a trans* person. She’s deceiving everybody because she’s a (fictional) trans* person created by cissexual filmmakers. As Drakyn points out, the trans* person who’s “fooling” us on purpose is a myth we cissexuals invented. Why? Because we are so focused on our own narrow experience of gender that we can’t imagine anything outside it. We take it for granted that everyone’s gender matches the sex they were born with. With this assumption in place, the only logical reason to change one’s gender is to lie to somebody.

The shock of Sleepaway Camp’s ending relies on the cissexist assumption that one’s biological sex and gender presentation must always match. A person with a mismatched sex and gender presentation is someone to be distrusted and feared. Though the audience has identified with Peter throughout the movie, we are meant to turn on him and fear him at the end, as he’s not only a murderer – he’s a deceiver as well. But, as Tera points out, the only deception is the one in the minds of cisgender viewers who assume that Peter’s sex and gender must align in a specific, proper way. Were this not the point that the filmmakers wanted to make, they would have revealed the twist slightly earlier in the film, allowing time for the viewer to digest the information and realize that Peter is still a human being. (This kind of twist is done effectively in The Crying Game, specifically because the twist is revealed midway through the film, and the audience watches characters cope and come to terms with the reveal in an honest, sensitive way. Such sensitivity is not displayed in Sleepaway Camp.)
And yet, despite its cissexism, Sleepaway Camp has some progressive moments. Most notably, the depiction of Angela and Peter’s parents, a gay male couple, is positive. In the opening scene, the parents appear loving and committed, and there’s even a flashback scene depicting the men engaging in romantic sexual relations. Considering how divisive gay parenting is in the 21st century, the fact that a mainstream film made nearly thirty years ago portrays gay parenting positively (if briefly) is certainly worthy of praise. 
Sleepaway Camp is incredibly problematic, but beyond the surface-layer clichés and the shock value of the ending, it’s a fascinating and truly horrifying film. Particularly watching the film today, in an era where bullying is forcing young people to make terrifyingly destructive decisions, the abuses against Peter ring uncomfortably true. Peter encounters cruelty at every turn, emotionally scarring him until he can think of no other way to cope besides murder. Unlike horror movies in which teenagers are murdered as punishment for sexual activity, Sleepaway Camp murders teenagers for the torment they inflict on others. There’s a certain sweet justice in that sort of conclusion, but at the same time, it makes you wish the situations that bring on the murders hadn’t needed to happen at all.
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Carrie Nelson is a Bitch Flicks monthly contributor. She was a Staff Writer for Gender Across Borders, an international feminist community and blog that she co-founded in 2009. She works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit, and she is currently pursuing an MA in Media Studies at The New School.

LGBTQI Week: “All the Pieces Matter:” Queer Characters of Color on ‘The Wire’

(L-R): Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn) and Omar Little (Michael K. Williams) on The Wire
The Wire is the greatest TV series of all time. Period.
Now, I know I’m not really making some bold claim as many, many, many, manycriticshave professed their unabashed love for the crime drama. No other show has painstakingly depicted the complexities of racism, the inner city and the lives of the underclass. It’s a grandiose statement “about the American city, and about how we live together” and how institutional inequities fail social justice.
When people talk about The Wire, usually with awe and reverie, they discuss the sharp dialogue or the nuanced characters or the statement on race and the criminal justice system. And all of that is amazing. But I think what gets lost is that people forget The Wire’s depiction of queer characters and ultimately its statement on LGBTQ rights.  
The Wire portrayed complex, fully developed queer characters, something you don’t typically see in pop culture. With my absolute two favorite characters, Detective Kima Greggs and Omar Little – a black lesbian woman and a black gay man – The Wire confronted assumptions and stereotypes of heteronormativity.
Played by Sonja Sohn, an African-American and Asian-American black woman, kick-ass Detective Kima Greggs was a hard-working, smart, compassionate and loyal. Possessing integrity and earning the respect of her colleagues, she’s a fiercely shrewd and efficient police detective working in narcotics and later homicide. And she’s openly lesbian. From her very first scenes, we witness Kima better at her job than many of the men around her. She’s an indispensable member of the Major Crimes Unit. Outside of work, we see Kima with her partner Cheryl, a journalist. Later in the series, we see how work stress (especially after Kima is shot), conflicting goals, infidelity, parenthood and alcohol strain their relationship. After they break up, we see Kima and Cheryl come together to raise their son, as well as Kima’s fantastic “hustler” version of Goodnight, Moon.

The Wire‘s Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn)
With his signature trench coat, shotgun and trademark whistle, Omar (portrayed by the effortlessly charismatic Michael K. Williams) was a badass stick-up man who everyone in the hood respected, even those who wanted him dead. And he was a proud gay black man. Intelligent, brave, sensitive and funny, he abided by a strict moral code. He loved Honey Nut Cheerios and Greek mythology, loathed profanity and dropped nuggets of wisdom on the similarities between lawyers and thieves and says things like, “Ares, same dude different name” and “You come at the king, you best not miss.” The media is littered with tropes about gay men. Yet here was Omar – a tough, fearless, modern-day Robin Hood robbing drug dealers – who just happened to be gay and broke every stereotype. 
The Wire showed both Kima and Omar’s romantic relationships. We witness them laugh, kiss, have sex, and fight. In short, complete relationships. It was great to see to see a gay and a lesbian relationship amidst all the heterosexual relationships. When queer relationships are depicted on TV, they’re often sanitized and peppered with chaste kisses, when the straight relationships are not. Queer characters may be clothed or the relationships are put on the back burner, not in integral part of the characters’ lives. With The Wire, we see queer characters having sex. We see Omar naked. Passion, raw sexuality, and tenderness abound in the queer relationships. We shouldn’t be plagued by heteronormativity and just see straight relationships as the default and queer relationships as peripheral. Queer relationships were entrenched in the series.
It’s also interesting to see how other Wire characters treat homosexuality. When asked by Carver, “If you don’t mind can I ask you when was it that you first figured you liked women better than men?” To which she replies, “I mind.” Detective McNulty praises Kima, telling her the only other competent female detective he ever worked with was a lesbian (ahhh a back-handed, sexist compliment…thanks, Jimmy!) Omar is often referred to with gay slurs like the F-word and C-sucker. When drug kingpin Avon Barksdale finds out from his crew that Omar is gay, he quadruples the bounty on him.Many of the characters seem to view lesbians as masculine, the desired gender, and gay men as effeminate, denigrating the feminine. The portrayal of Kima and Omar question, challenge and subvert these stereotypes.

The Wire‘s Omar Little (Michael K. Williams)

Now, it’s great we’re starting to see more and more queer characters on-screen (Modern Family, True Blood, Grey’s Anatomy, Will & Grace, Glee, The L Word, Queer as Folk, Buffy, Roseanne). Although I desperately wish we were seeing more bisexual (although thank you for Callie Torres, Grey’s Anatomy!) and transgender characters. But usually when we see queer characters, we see white, upper class/upper middle class characters. As if no queer people of color or queer people who are impoverished or even working class exist.

Class and race are so often erased in our media (one of the many reasons Roseanne was so groundbreaking and amazing). Not every queer person lives in Park Slope or West Hollywood attending art gallery openings and having nannies. The Wire depicts financially struggling and impoverished queer women and men of color.
Stereotypes plague queer characters on sitcoms. And yes, sitcoms differ from dramas. Kima and Omar (while Omar does seem too badass to be an actual person) both seem very real. They exhibited foibles and weaknesses along with their strengths. But their relationships didn’t define them. Rather, they were an integral component of their lives. Kima and Omar weren’t beholden to these stereotypes that alert us to “Oh, this is a gay character!” Fully developed and fleshed out, they didn’t fall prey to common tropes.
But Kima and Omar weren’t the only queer characters. Major Rawls, a gay-slur-spewing jerk, is a closeted gay man as we see him briefly at a gay bar. Snoop (Felicia Pearson), the frighteningly ruthless, gender non-conforming soldier in Marlo’s crew (sidebar, my fave scene with her is when she goes to Home Depot), is a lesbian as we learn after Detective Bunk tells her he’s thinking about some pussy and she replies, “Me too.” Both Rawls and Snoop, along with Greggs and Omar, challenge gender and heteronormative assumptions.

The Wire‘s Snoop (Felicia “Snoop” Pearson)
Despite my adulation, The Wire is far from perfect. (Say what??) The Wire boasts strong, complex female characters (Kima Greggs, Ronnie, Beadie, Brianna Barksdale, Snoop) Yet it sadly suffers from a woman problem. As progressive as it is, sexism taints it. Just because a film or TV series contains a “portfolio of ‘strong women’” doesn’t automatically deem it feminist.The Wire often focus on the male characters. While we see myriad perspectives from the male characters, the women aren’t typically offered the same screen-time or scope, often existing peripherally. David Simon himself admitted that his female characters could be called “men with tits.” Ugh. While based on a couple lesbian officers he knew, Simon wrote Kima Greggs “like a man.” We often witness how institutional racism and classism oppress the male characters and how gendered notions of masculinity harm men. Yet we rarely see how sexism impacts the women from their perspective. But the flaws in its depiction of women doesn’t unravel the tremendous good The Wire has done.

“The characters on The Wiredemonstrate a departure from heteronormative assumptions in television complicated by race. The prospect of seeing homosexual minority couples has remained largely untouched by major media outlets and it is therefore worth applauding. While the series may lack a strong female presence to challenge traditional heterosexual gender roles, the work that it has done involving homosexual partnerships serves as one of the sole examples of normalized homosexuality.”
When asked why he created an out lesbian and a gay stick-up man, creator David Simon responded, “Because gay people exist.” Is there any more perfect reason than that? He went on to say that he knew lesbian detectives and openly gay stick-up men in Baltimore. Whatever failings Simon suffered from not knowing how to write about women, he knew to include gay characters. It shouldn’t be so surprising or groundbreaking. And yet it is for the media too often erases queer (and queer people of color’s) perspectives. And that’s just one of the many reasons why The Wire should be celebrated.The Wire‘s routine depiction of gay and lesbian characters conveyed queer individuals and queer relationships as normal, loving and valid. The Wire refused to make heterosexuality the default sexual orientation.

Weaving diverse voices and social justice issues together in a compelling, thought-provoking, passionate way — that’s what The Wire did best. Too often the media silences and erases queer people of color. The Wire brought those perspectives to the forefront. Quoting Detective Lester Freamon, evolving into the show’s unofficial mantra, “And all the pieces matter.” And so do all the various genders, sexualities, races and identities of the characters involved. Just like real life…or at least how real life should be.
P.S. Michael K. Williams (Omar), who’s incredibly gracious and charming – yes, I’m going to brag for a moment…I was lucky enough to meet him (!!!), as well as Andre Royo (Bubs) and Jamie Hector (Marlo) who were also super nice – filmed a PSA for marriage equality in Maryland. If you’re an Omar fan, you should totes watch it. Oh, indeed.

 

LGBTQI Week: The Kids Are Terrible, The Sex Is Worse

 
(Pour me another … this is going to be a long night.)
 
This is a guest review by Nino Testa. When The Kids Are All Right came out in 2010, it was widely considered one of the best films of the year. (I happen to think the movie kind of sucked, but there is no accounting for taste.) The film was written and directed by Lisa Cholodenko, who is best known for her 1998 film High Art, perhaps giving Kids queer cred in LGBT and straight circles. Kids tells the story of two queer mothers, Jules and Nic (played by Julianne Moore and Annette Bening respectively), whose annoying teenage children initiate contact with the donor whose sperm was used to impregnate each of the women. The mothers begrudgingly allow the contact, and in the middle of the movie Jules begins an affair with the sperm donor, played by the calm, cool and scruffy Mark Ruffalo. The emotional crux of the narrative revolves around Nic’s discovery of the affair, her subsequent emotional breakdown and the restoration of family tranquility as Nic decides to salvage her marriage despite Jules’ infidelity. Also: this is supposedly a comedy.

The film wasn’t just lauded as a cinematic achievement, it was also celebrated as a “positive” and “honest” representation of quotidian lesbian life in an age where gay marriage dominates any discussion of LGBT people. In addition to multiple Academy Award nominations—for acting, writing, and best picture, but not, interestingly enough, best director—the film has 93% positive reviews on rottentomatoes, so pretty much everyone who gets to decide that movies are good told us that this one was worthy of our time. Many of the reviews focus on the film’s supposedly groundbreaking “realistic” depiction of lesbians (I guess these people have never seen The Hunger.) Eric Snider from film.com refers to the characters as “realistically portrayed.” A.O. Scott from the New York Times writes: “The performances are all close to perfect, which is to say that the imperfections of each character are precisely measured and honestly presented.” Tom Long of the Detroit News called it “one of the year’s most honest and endearing films.” (“Honest” is the key word in all of these reviews. We might want to think about what it means to call a work of fiction “honest.” To say that it is “honest” means that it confirms, in some way, our worldview; it proves something we think to be true.) And then there is this gem from The Wall Street Journal, which really sums up the self-congratulatory, progressive reviews of this film: “The basic joke here, and it’s a rich one, is that the dynamics of gay marriages differ little from those of straight marriages.” This is, of course, the ultimate compliment that the mainstream press can make about queer people—that they are just like straight people. Judging from the film, what seems to be at stake is whether or not gay married couples can be as unhappy and passive aggressive as straight married couples, thus making them more deserving of legal protections.

In a Shewired.com article by Kathy Wolfe, the founder of Wolfe, the world’s largest exclusive distributor of lesbian and gay movies, Wolfe sings the film’s praises for its place in lesbian film history, calling it, without a shred of irony, “The Lesbian Brokeback Mountain”:

For a variety of reasons, The Kids Are All Right will be the most widely distributed lesbian-themed mainstream movie in history. Like that beloved yet sad gay cowboy movie, it has major stars in the gay roles: Julianne Moore and Annette Bening as lesbian moms. This ensures that the film will reach a wide audience. Most exciting of all — with its entertaining yet ultimately politically powerful message of putting a lesbian family front and center — the film will open hearts and minds very much like Brokeback did on its theatrical release.

Let’s read that statement again: “the politically powerful message of putting a lesbian family front and center.” What makes the film a positive political intervention, for Wolfe, is that lesbians exist as subjects, never mind the content of the film. Wolfe goes on to discuss “how far we’ve come” in the representation of lesbians in cinema and express her gratitude for the wide release of this film—suggesting that the sheer existence of LGBT-themed films by LGBT people (Cholodenko is queer-identified) is an unquestionably good thing for LGBT people, no matter what the films are about.

OK—so that’s the story about the film. Now, what of the film itself?

Let’s start with perhaps the most memorable scene in the movie, which finds Jules and Nic trying to make whoopee, but unable to get into the groove. They call in the big guns, as it were, and pop in some outdated gay male porn to get their juices flowing. Nic watches the porn while Jules—completely covered by bedding, because, you know, why would anyone want to see themselves having sex with Julianne Moore? So much for realism—takes care of business. Their annoying son catches them in the act and has a few questions about their choice of aphrodisiac. The entire sexual encounter has been a letdown from the get-go, but the interruption by the annoying son ensures that nobody will be getting off tonight. In one of the film’s funniest scenes, Jules comments on the “realism” of lesbian pornography, suggesting that it isn’t erotic because the women in the film aren’t lesbians, which is, I’m assuming, a kind of joke about the film we are watching, in which two A-list straight actors are playing gay. What is so interesting about that joke is that it complicates the film’s own politics of representation (as articulated by Wolfe): Jules’ comment debunks the myth that any representation of queerness is as satisfying (sexually or otherwise) as any other.

(Headache? Great. I hate having sex with women.)

Contrast this underwhelming sex scene with the two opposite-sex sex scenes in the film. At the risk of generalizing and making normative claims about what constitutes good sex, both of the opposite-sex sex scenes—one with the Hulk and Julianne Moore, the other with the Hulk and Yaya DaCosta—are, objectively speaking, super f’ing hot. I mean, they are legit sex scenes. People are naked. People are getting off. Bodies are touching. There are noises. And rhythms. When Mark Ruffalo has sex with women, it is sweaty, passionate, multi-positioned, ass-baring, the-hills-are-alive-with-the-sound-of-heterosexuality sex; when Jules and Nic have sex, it is sad, lifeless, awkward and unsatisfying for literally everyone involved. It is unsatisfying for the women, who have a grin-and-bear it look on their faces; it is unsatisfying for the audience if they came to see cunnilingus so realistic that it would make them regret going to see the film with their parents (luckily Black Swan also came out in 2010); and it is unsatisfying for the women’s children, for whom their moms’ sexuality is a perpetual source of embarrassment: their porn, their toys, their PDA all elicit disgust from their children. And not just the typical “Ew gross my parents have sex” response, but legitimate mortification that the movie suggests feeds the children’s desire to meet their sperm donor. Their parents, according to the narrative, just aren’t enough for them—and they certainly aren’t enough for each other.

(Lesbian heartthrob, Mark Ruffalo.)

The contrast is, of course, the point. Jules and Nic are in a marriage-funk—Lesbian Bed Death and all that—thus Jules’s decision to look for new sexual thrills. I don’t think there is anything wrong with showing an unsuccessful or disappointing sexual encounter between queer women. I don’t think there is anything wrong with the fact that in a movie about queer women, the women need gay male porn to get off, or even that they desire and engage in sex with men, something to which some LGBT blogs and writers took exception (“girl, do you” pretty much sums up my philosophy on consensual sexual activity in movies or real life). But it does give one pause that a movie ostensibly about lesbians cannot imagine the possibility of satisfying sex between women, even as opposite-sex sex is portrayed as reliably orgasmic (newsflash: it ain’t). This film, which is being called the “the Lesbian Brokeback,” is organized almost entirely around the rise and fall of Mark Ruffalo’s penis. The narrative is phallocentric in much the same way as pornography featuring a male-female-female threesome (or any hetero-aimed porno) is phallocentric: the man’s penis is depicted as the most satisfying sexual toy, the most direct line to women’s pleasure. Sure, women can do some stuff to each other…but it’s basically foreplay, if it amounts to anything at all.

Further proof of the film’s phallocentrism comes from a quick search on IMDB where the plot key words listed for this film are:

Sperm | Sperm Donor | Biological Father | College | Restaurant

There is no mention of lesbians, motherhood, marital problems, or women at all. The fact that Mark Ruffalo’s character owns a goddamn restaurant seems to have more relevance than the fact that this is a movie about queer women. Moreover, the title of the film, which is the name of a Who song, emphasizes the well-being of the children—(See, gay moms can produce annoying, maladjusted and ungrateful teens, just like you!)—and deemphasizes the women who are supposedly kept “front and center.” For a movie that is being called a crowning achievement of lesbian cinema, lesbianism always seems to be not quite the point.

(They are the worst.)

Now, a movie about lesbian moms and the grown children who resulted from their insemination could, one would imagine, take on many forms. What we should be asking is: why this form? Why this story, and why this story as the one that we elevate to an enshrined place in lesbian cinema (It made the top 30 on an IMDB list of the “Best Lesbian Movies”). When critics call the depiction of lesbians “honest” what worldview has the film confirmed for them? It seems to me to confirm the lesson espoused by another “classic lesbian-themed” film, Chasing Amy—that all lesbians really want, all they really need, is sex with men. And none of this would bother me nearly as much if people didn’t talk about movies like this as “changing hearts and minds” and battling homophobia. It’s Glee-syndrome. If everyone involved in the movie—including the critics who reviewed it and the audiences who raved about it—weren’t so self-congratulatory, you might just be able to experience this as the mediocre film it is and relish in Annette Bening’s mastery of awkward tipsy dinner conversation.

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Nino Testa is a doctoral candidate in English at Tufts University, in Medford, Massachusetts. He also works at the Tufts Women’s Center and LGBT Center.