Male Fantasy – Bitch Flicks

‘Entourage’: Masculinity and Male Privilege in Hollywood

Turtle reminds Vince that “the movie is called ‘Aquaman,’ not ‘Aquagirl.'” This line is indicative of the “boys club” that continues to thrive in Hollywood. An actress’s livelihood in the industry is dependent on her co-star.

This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on Masculinity.

“Ultimately, the show’s theme is friendship and family. The characters may have bling, but they’re grounded guys who look out for each other. That’s the backbone of the show. If it was just about fantasy lifestyles, it wouldn’t be relatable” – Doug Ellin, creator and director, Entourage.

The HBO series Entourage (2004-2011) focuses on four men, born and bred in Queens, as they navigate the tough terrain of Hollywood. The show revolves around actor and superstar Vincent Chase. Rounding out his entourage are: Vince’s best friend and manager, Eric “E” Murphy (Kevin Connolly); childhood friend, assistant, and driver Sal “Turtle” Assante (Jerry Ferrara); and Vince’s older half-brother, personal chef, and C-list actor, Johnny “Drama” Chase (Kevin Dillon). The story and characters are inspired by actor Mark Wahlberg, his manager Stephen Levinson, and various members of Wahlberg’s entourage during Wahlberg’s rise to fame. Entourage has often been criticized for its portrayal of male fantasy lifestyles. Their lives consist of buying expensive cars, attending exclusive parties and movie premieres, and hot girls. Ellin’s estimation is correct. Entourage is not a portrayal of the male fantasy. Instead, it reinforces the harsh reality that being a male, especially in Hollywood, equals power.

Each episode appears to end with a satisfying resolution. Seasons one and two consist of the guys finding Vince a new role that will propel him to stardom. In season one, Vince is coming off of a mediocre debut film and now wants a role with substance, while his equal opportunity offender and hardball agent, Ari Gold (Jeremy Piven), wants Vince to take a blockbuster film. At the end of season one, Vince films the indie and season two depicts Eric and Ari through the trials, tribulations, schmoozing, and negotiations of making Vince well-known to director James Cameron.

In season two, episode seven, “The Sundance Kids,” the guys end up fracturing a movie deal with producer Harvey Weingard (Maury Chakin) in the hopes of James Cameron casting Vince as Aquaman. At the end of the episode, when James Cameron leaves the film early, their hopes are dashed. That is, until Vince receives a phone call from James Cameron asking him if he wants to be his Aquaman. It is made clear that at this point, Vince is largely unknown. He fails to reach the superstardom of Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio, or Will Smith, yet Cameron is willing to take a chance. In season five, Vince’s film flops at Cannes and he is out of work for the next six months. In the reality of Hollywood, six months is a vacation for male stars, while it is a death sentence for actresses. Despite the rollercoaster of events, Vince and company still manage to stay on top.

Throughout the series, women are disposable. This notion is solidified in the pilot by Turtle when the guys invite Vince’s groupies over for a pool party: “Sweetheart, look around. Vince is gone. So’s your sister and your best friend. Come on, just make out with me, I’ll show you where Vince eats breakfast.” This can be seen as males using women–or “girls” as the guys refer to them—as a source of status and service. However, there is an equality in the leeching that occurs. Women are for consumption and allow themselves to be consumed. The next day, Turtle gives the girl a fresh pair of Vince’s jeans as a gift and all is well.

However, the most telling episode occurs in season two, episode eight, “Oh, Mandy.” After receiving news that actress and singer Mandy Moore has been offered the role of Aquagirl, Ari, the studio, the guys, and Vince’s opinionated and brass publicist, Shauna (Debi Mazar), scramble. Vince’s past romance with Mandy has the potential to hurt the movie. As a result, Vince has to make the decision as to whether or not she stays on the movie or not. Turtle reminds Vince that “the movie is called Aquaman, not Aquagirl.” This line is indicative of the “boys club” that continues to thrive in Hollywood. An actress’s livelihood in the industry is dependent on her co-star.

While there are notable women in the series, they are largely present to elevate the males. For example, the fact that Ari’s wife, Mrs. Ari is referred to as such and it is the character’s name, until the series finale, demonstrates how her identity clings to being the wife of Ari Gold. Yet she is the figure whom we see a different side of Ari through. While she tolerates his adolescent tantrums, Melissa is able to go toe-to-toe with Ari. In the pilot, as a way of solidifying his masculinity over Eric, Ari boasts about sleeping with supermodels. After audiences meet Melissa, they know this is false. As Ari attempts to skip out on his son’s birthday party to reign in Vince, Melissa calls him an “asshole.” His counter argument is to make a laundry list of everything he has provided for her: the means to contribute to charities, go shopping, and support her deadbeat brother. She simply replies, “Hey little agent boy, you better be back here for the cake,” and his only response is “OK.” His dynamic with Melissa, as well as, Lloyd his assistant/whipping boy, saves his character from being completely unsalvageable.

Women are also seen as the saviors when the stakes are high. In season one, one of Vince’s girlfriends provides a weed dealer to an uptight producer whose dealer is dry. As a result, the producer takes a liking to Vince and accepts his casting in the indie Queens Boulevard. In season two, porn stars rush to Vince’s aid when a journalist at comic-con (Rainn Wilson) threatens to ruin Vince and Aquaman before it has been filmed. Shauna—who calls Vince “Vincent”—acts as Vince’s west coast mother who tells him what to wear, how to act, and attempts to talk him off a ledge when his heart is broken by Mandy Moore. In addition to Melissa, the other women of Entourage, Sloan McQuewick (Emmanuelle Chriqui) and Jamie Lynn Sigler (playing herself), allow for the men to mature from boys playing with toys to men—who continue to play with toys, but have responsibility—at least in their romantic lives.

What is fascinating about Entourage is the timing of the premiere. Two months before the premiere, HBO had just come off the wave of the hit series Sex and the City. While it is not fair to compare the two series, there are areas in which they are similar. Each series has four friends who look out for each other and keep each other grounded and we see an air of extravagancy that is not afforded to the average viewer: shoes, homes, cars, etc. While romance and relationships is the focus on Sex and the City, the men of Entourage spend a fair amount of time talking about women. Eric’s relationships with women is usually the point of discussion.

While Eric’s story and character arc is establishing himself as a viable manager, Eric’s growth throughout the series is arguably the most relatable and interesting. The definition of masculinity—money, power, girls, brute strength—is not necessarily synonymous to Eric. If he were to be compared to a Sex and the City character, he is Miranda Hobbes. Miranda is successful, but her style does not eclipse that of Carrie Bradshaw. Miranda is the everywoman. She is career-driven, maintains a healthy relationship (formerly cynical about men and love), and is the practical voice of reason in their circle of friends. Eric, a former Sbarro pizza boy, is not as handsome as Vince, he drives an old car—until Vince gifts him one—and wears his heart on his sleeve. These two characters are likable because they are not the famous writer or movie star. So, is Miranda a male in women’s clothes, or is Eric a female in male’s clothes? The fact that Miranda, a woman, and Eric a male, can be compared concludes that our ideas of masculinity and femininity are not exclusive.

The reality of Entourage is that their environment allows for adolescent and offensive behaviors amongst men. Males are allowed to make power plays against each other and win. If they lose, their next opportunity is around the corner. This is not afforded to women who either need to be sexy and “bangable” while maintaining the visage of the “cool” girl next door to survive. Ellin is correct that the friendship amongst males is the theme of Entourage, but so is the fact that outside of the family dynamic, the “backbone” of their industry calls for males who look out for each other.

Rachel Wortherley earned a Master of Arts degree at Iona College in New Rochelle, New York. Her downtime consists of devouring copious amounts of literature, films, and Netflix. She hopes earn an MFA and become a professional screenwriter.

Horror Week 2012: “We work with what we have," The Subversion of Gender Roles in ‘The Cabin in the Woods’

This is a guest post from Amanda Rodriguez

Joss Whedon and Drew Goddard’s Cabin in the Woods is a fantastic movie, laying the horror genre bare, critiquing its conventions, and creating a space for a larger cultural conversation. Gender roles (both in and out of horror movies) are a major component of this conversation in which the filmmakers encourage us to engage. Most importantly, the film critiques the virgin/whore dichotomy that cinema and society seem to insist is the only way we can view most women.

A little background info: The scenario in Cabin in the Woods is pretty typical of the horror genre: five college-aged teens spending a weekend at a remote cabin are brutally attacked by a “zombie redneck torture family.” What isn’t typical is that a powerful, secret agency using advanced technology is manipulating the situation in order to complete a sacrificial ritual to ensure the continued slumber of fierce, ancient gods. Yeah, a bit off the beaten path, no?

The sacrifice requires a “transgression” and the resulting deaths of the athlete/jock (Curt), the scholar (Holden), the fool (Marty), and the whore (Jules). The death of the “final girl” aka the virgin (Dana) is optional. Each character is a stand-in for a horror movie archetype. When we examine the two female characters fighting for their lives, we find that they are neither virgin nor whore.

The so-called “whore” is Jules, our heroine’s bubbly best friend and roommate. She is sharp-witted and good-natured, a loyal friend. The agency manipulating the kids is decreasing Jules’ cognitive abilities through a slow-acting chemical compound in her blonde hair dye (she decided to dye her hair on a whim…sounds suspicious to me), and they’ve upped her libido via drugs. As the night progresses, Jules’ behavior becomes more and more out of character.

Apparently, sexy fireplace dancing and making out with a taxidermied wolf aren’t part of Jules’ normal partying repertoire.

Jules is the one who must “transgress” by showing her breasts and her willingness to engage in sexual activity, setting off the release of the Buckners (zombie rednecks) to begin the blood sacrifice. When it comes time, though, Jules doesn’t really want to have sex. She and her boyfriend, Curt, are outside, and she wants to go back inside. She’s cold, and it’s too dark. In order to combat Jules’ reservations about having sex, the agency raises the temperature into the 80’s, shines light into a clearing to simulate moonbeams, and floods the area with a pheromone mist.

Though it can’t be said that Jules is forced to transgress, her free will is certainly called into question. Outside forces are influencing her brain, her hormones, and her physical surroundings in such a way that her downfall becomes inevitable. Taken in a larger cultural context, this calls into question the notion that women who like sex or who own their sexuality are whores. It is as if all the women who are judged for some perceived promiscuity are miscast, just like Jules is miscast. Much like the agency, cultural circumstances manipulate women into these roles. A key example of this is how media representations of women replete with their over-sexualization and overt body focus set women up to take the fall in order to fulfill some arcane cultural need. This need seems to go back to (if not predate) the biblical “Fall of Man” where Eve is the transgressor who is blamed for the birth of sin and then punished. Like the horror movie genre, we repeat this same formula over and over again, craving the same result: the transgression and punishment of a woman for her sexuality. Why do we do this? Because it’s a man’s world? Because men are threatened by the power and autonomy of female sexuality? I’m sure all that and more is true, but it’s safe to say it’s definitely a dude thing.

On the other side of the dichotomy coin, we have Dana, the archetypical virgin, who is not actually a virgin.

The non-virgin virgin. Talk about not really fitting into a gender stereotype.

Unlike Jules, though, Dana naturally exhibits many of the traits that have cast her in the role of the virgin. She is shy, sexually uncomfortable, brainy, artistic, and somewhat socially awkward. However, as the terrors she must face intensify, Dana has a reserve of strength that aligns her with Carol Clover’s final girl feminist trope. She repeatedly stabs her bear-trap-wielding zombie attacker, Matthew Buckner, with a crowbar and then a knife. She wrestles her way out of the depths of a lake after being attacked by Father Buckner and then withstands an almost inhuman amount of abuse on the dock at the hands of Matthew Buckner. Not only that, but Dana identifies with the killer when she sympathetically reads from the diary of Patience Buckner, thus setting the stage for the ritual by choosing the method of the five friends’ deaths. Also, at the end of the film, in an act that borders on complicity, Patience Buckner stabs The Director (of the agency), and when she does this, Dana sees Patience as her salvation.

In the end, though, Dana doesn’t fit the horror genre virgin role or Clover’s mold because she isn’t the final girl. Marty manages to survive, thus subverting the entire horror genre and the final girl trope in the process. Marty uses his bong invention to rescue Dana from Matthew Buckner before spiriting her away to show her that he’s discovered a subterranean maintenance override panel that he’s hotwired to take them out of their contained, controlled area down into the agency’s headquarters to confront their true tormentors.

Bong Boy to the rescue!

Marty is our unlikely hero, which I appreciate, on the one hand, because he is smart, inventive, funny, insightful, and not attractive in the typical Hollywood sense of the word. Even as far as characterization goes, Marty is a far more interesting and engaging protagonist than Dana, who is, frankly, about as fascinating and individualized as linoleum. On the other hand, Marty as the hero making the final decision about whether or not to save our corrupt world subverts the possibility of a feminist reading of the ending. Marty decides that we’re not a species worth saving, and after attempting to shoot him and being bitten by a werewolf, Dana goes along with his choice. Ultimately, Cabin in the Woods is a male fantasy in which the nerd becomes the hero, saving the woman for whom he clearly cares while holding in his hands the power to determine the fate of the world.

It’s dubious whether or not Cabin in the Woods passes the Bechdel Test, as even the final conversation Dana has with The Director is centered around the importance Marty plays in maintaining world order. Without a doubt, the movie is doing many exciting, transgressive things. I find particularly important the way the audience is analogous with “the gods” because we are the ones demanding these elaborate, repetitive sacrifices that push people into these stereotypical roles. It’s not only an indictment of the horror genre but of the voyeuristic spectatorship that perpetuates these horror tropes. However, I expected more from the feminist powerhouse team that created Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I find myself wishing Marty had been cast as a woman, and the two women, the fool and the non-virgin virgin, would be the pair of survivors who finally say “no more” to a horror genre that dismembers, kills, and punishes them for being women. Maybe the world isn’t ready for that, but I’d hoped Joss Whedon and Drew Goddard would be ready to tell us that story anyway.

———-

Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.

Futurama’s Fanservice

By Myrna Waldron

Spoiler warning: Full summary of episodes from the currently airing Season 7.

Trigger warning: Very brief reference to rape.

From “Into The Wild Green Yonder,” Amy & Leela talking.

Is it possible to still love something when you’re completely annoyed by it?

This is how I feel about Futurama right now. I’ve been a fan of it since its premiere in 1999 (as I spent most of my preteen and teen years with a healthy obsession with The Simpsons). As my affection for The Simpsons waned, Futurama replaced it as my favourite TV show. And there’s a lot to love – the series affectionately parodies a wide array of science fiction staples, the mood varies from slapstick comedy, to tragedy, to overwhelming wonder, and the writers and actors are some of the most talented and intelligent working in television today.

The two main female characters, Turanga Leela and Amy Wong, are one of the main reasons I love the show so much. They are good examples of those mythical strong female characters you’ve all heard about, Leela especially. They combine several seemingly contradictory traits, resulting in a multi-faceted characterization.

Leela is one of those rare combinations of toughness and vulnerability, since her personality combines a short, sometimes violent temper, with tremendous internal insecurity. In situations where the cast is in trouble, Leela is always the one who reacts first, and she is usually the one who is the voice of reason (especially if her only allies are the dimwitted Fry and the immoral Bender). Her insecurity especially links to her heritage – as a mutant whose only mutation is a single eye in the centre of her forehead, she doesn’t truly belong with her mutant parents, nor with the “normal” humans.

Amy is a Chinese-American heiress, and is one of the few Asian characters I’ve seen represented on television ANYWHERE. She is sometimes shallow and promiscuous and has a tendency to constantly use the 30th century equivalent of slang, but she also holds a Ph.D in Applied Physics, establishing an Elle-Woods-in-Legally-Blonde-like contrast between the stereotype of a bimbo and incredible intelligence. She and Leela also share the trait that they don’t take any of the crap that their male co-workers sometimes throw at them.

But I have a problem.

From “Zapp Dingbat,” Munda, Leela, Fry and Bender.

After Futurama was un-cancelled and began airing new episodes on Comedy Central, the tone of the show changed. The show never shied away from risque jokes, but I have noticed that the general content of the show has become, as TV Tropes might say, “Hotter and Sexier.” To give one example, the second episode of the 6th season, “In-A-Gadda-De-Leela,” has some fanservice that severely undermines character development. In that episode, an out-of-control satellite forces Zapp Brannigan and Leela to have sex in order to save the planet. (It…makes a bit more sense in context) At this point in the series, Leela and Fry have finally become a couple, so this scene struck me as a rather blatant attempt to get Leela to have sex with Zapp again despite her significant character development. There are other earlier examples of Amy/Leela fanservice as well, such as them making out in “Bender’s Game” and a scene from “Jurassic Bark” of them wrestling in tiny spandex leotards. It gets pretty tiring.

The 7th season, which is currently airing, has two episodes with fanservice that I have a particular issue with. In “Zapp Dingbat,” Leela’s parents divorce and her mother Munda starts dating Zapp Brannigan. Since Leela believes Zapp is only using her mother to get to her, she resents their relationship tremendously. She tries everything she can think of to break them up, but they only flaunt their relationship even more in response. Eventually, Leela tries to seduce Zapp. She invites him to her apartment for dinner, and when he arrives, she’s shown dancing around a stripper pole in a negligee. This scene infuriated me – not only is the fanservicey attempt at showing Leela acting like a stripper extremely blatant, it contradicts Leela’s previously established loathing for Zapp and her regrets over their brief affair. Her actions are also indicative of selfish betrayal, which is also out of character for her. At no point does she recognize that her seduction attempt would constitute cheating on Fry, apparently all she’s thinking about is getting Zapp to cheat on her mother. I was also offended that of all the “sexy” acts of fanservice Leela could have been depicted as doing, they went for stripping, which is a tremendously misogynistic industry.

From “The Butterjunk Effect,” Amy and Leela flying in their skimpy battle costumes.

This trend of using the female characters for fanservice continues into the next episode, “The Butterjunk Effect.” In it, Leela and Amy join a “Butterfly Derby” league, which involves scantily clad female gladiators wearing giant butterfly wings. I bet I don’t even have to point out the fanservice here. Predictably, Leela and Amy wear very little once they become regular participants in this derby. They are easily defeated, and it is revealed their more powerful opponents drink “Nectar,” which acts similarly to steroids. The pair become addicted to the Nectar, and become violent and incredibly muscular. In fact, they become almost masculine, leading to some rather sexist jokes surrounding how they’re no longer acting like traditionally feminine women, and there are indications that Fry and Kif are losing attraction to them because of the masculinization. I suppose this is a parody of how steroids have a side effect of creating too much testosterone. At any rate, Leela and Amy run out of Nectar, and travel to the planet where it was sourced. Fry gets sprayed with a giant butterfly pheromone, which irresistibly arouse both Leela and Amy due to their Nectar addiction. Never mind that he’s already got one hot girlfriend, let’s have Fry fool around with the other hot girl too! …Again! I won’t even get into this episode’s running joke about women’s supposed cattiess to each other.

As you might guess, I’m pretty disgusted with how the female characters are being treated now. These plot developments and sexualized/objectified visuals are not indicative of the show that I love. It isn’t right that only the female characters are sexy, while every time a male character is naked or horny, it’s played for laughs. I suspected that this is because there aren’t any women on staff, only (presumably) heterosexual males. When I was looking up the information on these episodes, I decided to find out how many female writers/directors have been involved with Futurama. According to Wikipedia, not including season 7, there are a grand total of three female writers, Kristin Gore, Heather Lombard, and Maiya Williams, who are credited only one episode each. I know it’s typical for screenwriters to be mostly male, but that’s just pathetic.

Leela and Amy wrestling in leotards. Objectification of women? Surely you jest.

What I feel like is that episodes like “Zapp Dingbat” and “The Butterjunk Effect” set a rather dangerous precedent. The show hasn’t jumped the shark yet, but it’s strapped on the waterskis. If I were to show episodes like these to a non-fan, especially a female one, I doubt they’d gain much interest in the series. How did the same show go from “Robot learns he is not immortal and achieves a new understanding of how precious and finite life is” to “Women wear sexy leotards and butterfly wings while having airborne battles, then get addicted to steroids?” This downhill slope reminds me of what happened to Matt Groening’s other show, The Simpsons. The decline of The Simpsons is a topic that has been argued about many times, but the most common complaints include character derailment (Homer stopped being a well-meaning but foolish husband/father and became an overly impulsive and selfish asshole), fanservice (The Marge-gets-breast-implants episode, anyone?), and stupid, offensive and unrealistic plots (Homer gets raped by a panda). I am one of many Simpsons fans who had to give up watching the series, as it became unrecognizable from the groundbreaking and brilliant satire that I loved. It’s by now a cliche to prematurely predit the doom of a television series, but I don’t want to see the same downhill spiral from Futurama.

I doubt anyone involved with Futurama production is going to read this, but enough already. I don’t theoretically have a problem with risque jokes or sexy/erotic situations, but there is a difference between depicting sexuality, and exploiting and objectifying women for a presumed heterosexual male audience. Heterosexual women aren’t the only ones sick of this stuff. Judging from brief Twitter conversations I’ve had, some LGBT women don’t care for fanservice either, especially when it goes beyond subtle expressions of sexuality.

I like to joke that I believe in equal opportunity exploitation. If they’re not going to ever depict the male characters as sexy, then they need to stop with the fanservice of the female characters. It’s dragging down the entire show to exclusively objectify normally well-developed female characters. And they need to hire some women writers and directors. Math & science jokes, and science fiction in general, are not male-exclusive fields. I still want to continue to love Futurama. When the show is at its best, such as episodes like “The Late Philip J. Fry”, it’s one of the greatest shows on television. But stuff like a stripper Leela and butterfly gladiators bring down the entire series. Honestly…if things don’t get better, Futurama is going to end up just like The Simpsons.

Myrna Waldron is a feminist writer/blogger with a particular emphasis on all things nerdy. She lives in Toronto and has studied English and Film at York University. Myrna has a particular interest in the animation medium, having written extensively on American, Canadian and Japanese animation. She also has a passion for Sci-Fi & Fantasy literature, pop culture literature such as cartoons/comics, and the gaming subculture. She maintains a personal collection of blog posts, rants, essays and musings at The Soapboxing Geek, and tweets with reckless pottymouthed abandon at @SoapboxingGeek.

Guest Writer Wednesday: Bee Movie

Bee Movie (2007)

This is a guest post from Nicola Mason.

While shopping one day recently, I happened upon and purchased Bee Movie, the 2007 animated film featuring characters voiced by Jerry Seinfeld and Renee Zellweger. I had taken up beekeeping a few months before—had a hive of some 10,000 bees in my backyard—and I’d been educating my four-year-old daughter on how a hive’s vast population of wee six-legged arthropods work together to produce that delightfully sweet amber end-product, honey. I thought Bee Movie would be the perfect mom-daughter flick, and that it would reinforce much of what my little girl had been learning over the course of our bee-centric summer. To my horror, the movie not only presented a slew of factual inaccuracies, it also imposed a decidedly male worldview on the most successful matriarchal society in nature.

The movie begins on the graduation day of young Barry B. Benson (Seinfeld), who, along with the rest of his class (including his best friend, Adam, voiced by Matthew Broderick), must choose a job within New Hive City. A tour guide takes the class—made up of male and female bees—through the bustling inner complex and describes the choices available as we view (largely male) bees hard at work in the Honex industry.

The problem here is that, in actuality, male bees don’t work in the hive. At all. There are only a few drones in any given bee population, and their only “job” is to meet at a designated outdoor spot every afternoon in the hope that a virgin queen will pass by so they can fertilize her in an insect-world version of a gang bang. When the queen returns to the hive, she is so well fertilized that she need never mate again. All the eggs she will lay within the course of her life are already primed with the necessary genetic material to make the burgeoning brood of daughters that is necessary for the group’s survival. I feel compelled to point out that drones are considered so . . . inessential . . . that when winter sets in, they are summarily forced out of the hive and blocked from re-entering. The workers don’t want to waste precious honey on them, since it takes on average 40 lbs of the sweet stuff to sustain a hive through the cold months until nectar flows again. Drones would be an unnecessary drain on resources—and the workers can easily make a new bevy of boy-toys in the spring.

Weirdly, Barry lives in a private residence inside the hive with both a mother and father bee. The mother stereotypically worries over him and scolds him: “Don’t fly in the house!” Later in the film, the fact that the queen is his “real” mother is made clear. The Bensons are his adoptive parents. It seems worth mentioning, however, that this most powerful female force—the queen bee—is never seen and rarely mentioned. In essence, her role, and her significance, are downplayed because the movie is centered on its male hero—Barry—who, unwilling to be simply subsumed by predestined bee duties, dreams of a life of adventure.

In search of this life, he fixates on the “pollen jocks,” an eponym the film pins on forager bees, which in actuality are, of course, female. Here is where the movie takes, to my mind, a flat-out appalling testosterony turn. Its foragers are depicted as a military battalion of super bees—much larger than the workers, uniformly male, their chests puffed out with muscle and, one gathers, masculine pride. They are referred to by their drill sergeant as “monsters” and “sky freaks” as they line up at “J Gate” for their daily mission while a throng of starry-eyed female bees giggle and wave and gasp admiringly nearby. Moreover, these jocks are equipped with “nectar packs” that they carry on their backs. When Barry joins them one day (on a dare), we discover these are collection devices that, held like guns, violently siphon nectar from the flowers without the bees even having to land. Barry looks on in wonder as nature is raped and laments that he was not bred to be a pollen jock. (Insert retching sound.)

As the moviegoer expects, Barry finds a way to make his own mark. He takes the forbidden path and communicates with a human—a ditzy female florist (Renee Zellweger), who then largely drops out of the film as Barry pursues his solo crusade to keep humans from “stealing” the honey that bees work so hard to produce. The scandal goes public, and Barry, interviewed by a bee version of Larry King, becomes famous. A lawsuit ensues (bee world and human world collide), Barry wins, yadda yadda. There is an additional plot twist that brings his florist crush—with her oh-so-feminine love of lots and lots of pretty flowers—back into play, but even my four-year-old had lost interest at this point, so I will not bore you with the details.

Clearly the movie was intended as a star vehicle for Seinfeld. Obviously a male conceived of the movie (David Moses Pimental is listed as Head of Story). The writers of the screenplay—all seven of them, including Seinfeld—are, big surprise, male. What they created was not just a fiction but a male fantasy. The human female is even lured away from her big hunky boyfriend by tiny-but-charming Barry. Sure, you can give the film credit for a cross-species romance, but how difficult would it have been to simply reverse these roles? How about a female bee nonconformist hero? A male florist who adores all things prettily petaled and whose greatest aspiration is to attend the annual flower festival/parade, manning his own float? Humor could still be the heart of the film, but a slant, surprising, and more fulfilling humor that arises from challenging culturally-ingrained gender expectations instead of reinforcing them—emphasis on the forcing. I would give my weight in honey to see a film like that.

Nicola Mason is the managing editor of The Cincinnati Review, a lit mag based at University of Cincinnati. Her fiction has been widely published and anthologized. She is also a visual artist:www.nicolamason.com.