Max Thornton – Page 2

We’re All Stars: A Feminist Retrieval of ‘High School Musical’

I am not here to argue that the ‘High School Musical’ franchise is a feminist triumph. But I continue to believe that popular cultural products beloved of young women and girls receive an inordinate amount of vitriol because of misogyny, and that they merit close and generous examination for the retrieval of positive messages.

Written by Max Thornton.

First things first: I am not here to argue that the High School Musical franchise is a feminist triumph. But I continue to believe that popular cultural products beloved of young women and girls receive an inordinate amount of vitriol because of misogyny, and that they merit close and generous examination for the retrieval of positive messages.

(At least, that’s what I tell myself to justify my love of One Direction.)

The first time I saw High School Musical, I classified it as “basically Grease with worse songs but a better message,” and that holds true. As the RiffTrax snarks: “At last, a high school movie that tackles the issue of cliques.” But let’s be real, there are an awful lot of teen movies out there with pretty terrible messages (like, um, Grease), and HSM isn’t actually one of them.

There's so much pep in this poster, I'm exhausted just looking at it. — There’s so much pep in this poster, I’m exhausted just looking at it.

Sure, it’s cheesier than a four cheese pizza with extra cheese, setting up potential conflicts only to resolve them through ~the power of friendship~ ten minutes later. And sure, it has plot holes you could drive a bus through. My personal favorites are (1) the notion of theater nerds being obsessed with punctuality and (2) the fact that antagonists Ryan and Sharpay are in every way demonstrably better performers than the heroes Troy and Gabriella. (In fact, they are such breakout characters that Sharpay even has her own spinoff movie, Sharpay’s Fabulous Adventure, which, the montage of two dogs falling in love to a Justin Bieber song notwithstanding, undoubtedly has the most narrative cohesion of any film in the High School Musical franchise.)

However, let’s take our cue from Johnny Mercer and ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive. Latina Gabriella’s friendship with African-American nerd Taylor ensures that the film easily passes both the Bechdel test and the race equivalent. Then there’s the fact that, as a Tumblr post that eludes my search skills put it, the master narrative is that of a rom com about a popular boy “giving up his swag” to be with a nerdy girl. Of course, this is Disney at its Disneyest, so even the nerdy kids are bright-eyed and pimple-free, but it’s still essentially a gender inversion of a common trope.

Plus, the film kind of takes the hoary message about being true to yourself to a logical endpoint by being so ridiculously optimistic about the consequences. Standout number “Stick to the Status Quo” is all about kids reinforcing a system that disadvantages them because it’s all they know. The homework enthusiast who loves hiphop, the basketballer player who bakes, the stoner (/skateboarder, because this is Disney) who plays the cello – all are shouted down by their fellow students who want them to remain within their boxes. And yet surely nobody is fully defined by a single interest. Even the nameless masses of kids who insist that their bolder peers “stick to the stuff you know” must have other hobbies, pastimes, passions, facets to their personalities; but they are so invested in the clique system that they insist upon it, even when they logically should not. I’m not going to suggest that this is a trenchant critique of repectability politics and systems of normativity, but it is an illustration of how these things work. The system’s greatest trick is its internalization by those who suffer under it.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYZpZr3Cv7I”]

This being Disney, as the RiffTrax says, “high-schoolers’ secrets are ‘I like rap,’ not ‘Dissecting the fetal pigs gave me a boner.’” Everyone is afraid that doing something different will make their friends dislike them; their friends are jerks (“worse than jerks… mean jerks,” as Taylor The Academic Decathlete so incisively expresses it) for all of ten minutes before feeling bad, apologizing, and joining forces to enable the lead characters to excel at a truly implausible number of extracurriculars. In a corny, contrived way, the film presents a world in which being yourself really is the best option. Admit to your secret love of singing, and not only will your jock buddies accept you, they will actively scheme to enhance your time-management skills. Within the schema of the “be yourself” story, it’s at least consistent to the notion that being yourself always makes life better – even if it does this in a hopelessly rose-tinted manner. If the message of your fictional story is “things will be best if you are always true to yourself,” it makes logical and moral sense for your protagonists to get to have their cake and eat it once they have learned this lesson.

It’s also pretty easy to read this film as a coming-out story in disguise. The jock is concerned that his love of musical theater will alienate his teammates and his jock dad? Yeah. OK, it’s a stereotype, but what in this movie isn’t? Plus the movie goes out of its way to code Troy and Gabriella’s relationship as nonsexual: they bond over the idea of being in kindergarten, they never actually kiss until the sequel, their rival counterparts are a literal brother and sister (the brother of whom is as gay as you could get in a Disney Channel original film)… On one level, of course, this is simply a rather extreme version of boy-band attractiveness rendered as non-threatening, desexualized cuteness – being a 90s kid, I still think of Hanson as the zenith of such things – but the queer reading can certainly coexist. (Note also that gay-coded musical theater enthusiast Ryan and scoffing dudebro jock Chad inexplicably show up wearing each other’s clothes in a scene in High School Musical 2.)

You think I made that up? I did not make that up.

A major philosophical concern of recent decades has been the coexistence of unity and diversity. How do we balance our commonalities as human beings and our differences as individuals? As complex and difficult as this topic often gets, I ultimately can’t express it more succinctly than the lyrics to “We’re All In This Together”:

“We’re not the same, we’re different in a good way.”

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He wrote this piece for his partner, because it’s their anniversary and they watched High School Musical on their first date. Romance!

Add It To Your Netflix Queue: ‘The Returned’

‘The Returned’ is not explicitly about male violence against women, but this is an unmistakable through-line for those who are watching for it. Violence against women is, perhaps, more normalized in our culture than death itself; yet in truth it is as damnably unnatural as the dead returning.

Written by Max Thornton.

Carol Ann Duffy, the British Poet Laureate, has a poem called “Mrs Lazarus,” a characteristically feminist and unsettling take on the biblical story of Jesus’ resuscitation of Lazarus. “I had grieved,” it begins, and the mourning process is definitively pluperfect, the dead man “dwindling … vanishing … Until he was memory.” The man’s revival is not exactly a source of joy:

He lived. I saw the horror on his face.
I heard his mother’s crazy song. I breathed
his stench; my bridegroom in his rotting shroud,
moist and dishevelled from the grave’s slack chew,
croaking his cuckold name, disinherited, out of his time.

The French TV series The Returned (Les revenants) takes a similar approach to the question of the living dead. These are not the faceless, flesh-chomping hordes of popular lore, but individuals returned from the grave to reunite with family and friends who have moved on.

If you type “The Returned” into the Netflix search bar, you get two almost identical results. “The Returned (2013)” is a movie that takes a slightly more cerebral approach than many zombie films, but is still recognizably a zombie flick. “The Returned (2012)” is a tense, atmospheric French television series that acknowledges the z-word while maintaining its distance from it.

In a small French mountain town, the dead are returning. Whether days or years after their deaths, they return with no memory of dying and no knowledge that the intervening time has passed. Families who have completed all five stages of grief and found some sort of post-tragedy equilibrium, even a fragmented one, are suddenly reunited with loved ones who are, like Lazarus, “disinherited, out of [their] time.” The returned themselves find a world in which they no longer fit.

Each of the first seven episodes is named for a character, but the plot tends to be fairly evenly spread in focus across all the characters.

Fifteen-year-old Camille, killed in a bus crash, returns to a broken family and an identical twin who is now four years her senior.

Simon died on the morning of his wedding, and is now literally haunting his erstwhile fiancée, as she prepares to marry another man, and the daughter he never knew.

Julie survived a horrific serial killer attack seven years ago. She is followed home by the almost mute little boy whom she names Victor, a superbly unsettling instance of the creepy child trope.

Serge and Toni are brothers, Toni the manager of local watering hole The Lake Pub, Serge a revenant with a dark past.

Lucy, an employee of Toni’s, is violently attacked in an underpass late one night.

Adèle, Simon’s ex-fiancée, at first believes she is experiencing a resurgence of old nightmares and hallucinations.

There are, of course, significantly more characters than those named in episode titles, and their interlocking lives and intersecting pasts are elegantly unveiled over the course of the show’s eight hours.

There’s a lot to like about this show. It’s very French, slow and creeping, profoundly visual, wonderfully acted, beautifully directed, layered with meaning.

There’s also undeniably a focus on the abjection of the female body, women’s bodies as the site of violence and rupture. The violence against women on this show is never explicitly sexual, but there is a consistently sexual subtext to it: repeated stabbings, the biting of flesh, a mysterious wound opening up – it’s all a-quiver with invagination. Moreover, the water levels of the town’s reservoir are in flux, suggestive of the fluids of pregnancy, the grave birthing forth the dead back into life. As the normative cycle of reproduction is fissured, so there is also a challenge to (cis)sexist imaginings of the female body as the site of generativity and procreative sexuality. Motherhood is bestowed on Julie, whose uterus is surely rendered inoperative by the knife-blows that have scarred her lower abdomen, whose sexuality is shown only as queer. Unlike Simon, who is impotent and superfluous as a parental figure to the child he fathered from beyond the grave, Julie, the nurse, takes on the role of parent to the near-silent little boy who follows her home. The child chooses the parent; the grave rebirths the dead; barrenness is no impediment to parenthood and potency no guarantee of the same. Heterosexist logics of reproduction are disrupted, but so too are the bodies of women. Simply reversing the logic of reproduction is no guarantee of female bodily integrity. All the major male characters, including Adèle’s new fiancé and Camille and her sister’s father, sin against the women in their lives, committing betrayals that manifest as violence and/or controlling behavior.

The Returned is not explicitly about male violence against women, but this is an unmistakable through-line for those who are watching for it. Violence against women is, perhaps, more normalized in our culture than death itself; yet in truth it is as damnably unnatural as the dead returning.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. His friend Catherine told him to watch this show at least a year ago. Catherine, you were right.

Not Exactly the New ‘Buffy’: The Many Failings of ‘Supernatural’

The simplistic machismo of ‘Supernatural’ is particularly frustrating because there is so much potential for the show to challenge the norms of conventional masculinity – and yet it just doesn’t.

Written by Max Thornton.

Early in my embarrassingly emotional addiction to Supernatural, a friend pointed out that Supernatural picks up right where Buffy the Vampire Slayer left off – not only chronologically, having begun just two years after Buffy ended, but also in terms of the characters’ ages and stages in life. The Buffy gang took us demon-slaying through high school and college, while the Supernatural boys launch us on a quarter-life-crisis monster hunt as a career.

Both shows use a campy sensibility to explore questions of family, loyalty, and identity through monster metaphors. Both were resurrected after a self-contained five-season run to flounder a bit in seeking direction for continuing. Both have passionate fanbases who love to overanalyze every detail of the show.

Unfortunately, the major distinction between them arguably reflects a disturbing turn in US society at large: from the ongoing war on reproductive agency to the escalating violence against trans women, misogyny seems to be on the uptick.

It would, of course, be disingenuous to claim that the Joss Whedon brand of feminism is above reproach. We’ve covered the issues here at Bitch Flicks many times before, but the fact is, everything we criticize Whedon for – his failings with respect to race, sexuality, gender – is dialed up to 11 in Supernatural.

On the upside, they're really really pretty — On the upside, they’re really really pretty

There’s a certain charmingly riot-grrrl sensibility about the fabled origin of the concept for Buffy, Whedon’s well-documented desire to subvert the horror-movie cliché of the petite blonde victim by turning her into the superhero who punches monsters and stabs vamps. Ongoing critique of the whole “strong female character” trope problematizes the simplicity of this image, but only the most determined of naysayers could deny that Buffy Summers is a truly well-rounded, three-dimensional female character.

Supernatural, by contrast, has absolutely no feminist ambitions whatsoever. It’s a show about two estranged brothers reuniting to spend (at least) a decade working through their vast and multitudinous daddy issues by hunting and killing demons. The hunter substratum in which Dean and Sam Winchester operate is pretty traditionally macho, featuring a lot of roadtripping around the lower 48 in a ’67 Chevy Impala, listening to classic rock, being emotionally unavailable to an identikit parade of conventionally attractive women, and bottling up secrets from each other until they emerge at the most inconvenient possible moment for a melodramatic climax of raw fraternal honesty and man-tears.

The simplistic machismo of Supernatural is particularly frustrating because there is so much potential for the show to challenge the norms of conventional masculinity – and yet it just doesn’t.

After its first few seasons, which were more broadly monster-centered, Supernatural has turned its focus heavenward, to the metaphysical ministries of angels and demons. Now, a show that poaches so liberally from every belief system it’s ever met should be able to have some fun here with sexuality and gender. Angels in much of Christian tradition are ungendered beings of pure spirit, so it would make sense for the show’s angels to routinely transgress gender norms in the human bodies they take on as their vessels. It would be a great way to portray the angels’ non-humanity, showing them unwittingly and uncomprehendingly steamrolling over human gender roles because they simply do not know or care about this petty aspect of human life.

Alas, the show takes the lazy way out, adhering to the most narrowly patriarchal interpretation of angel gender. Most of the important angels are male, the female ones are seductive temptresses, and there’s no crossing or blurring of gender boundaries.

This is especially egregious, because the UST between Dean Winchester and the angel Castiel is off the charts. “Destiel” is Tumblr’s favorite romantic pairing, and it’s not hard to see why.

"NO HOMO" -- The CW — “NO HOMO” — The CW

The chemistry between actors Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins could lay the foundation for corroboration of Dean’s obvious yet canonically unacknowledged bisexuality, for an in-depth exploration of angelic nature, for a thorough dismantling of the gender binary… but of course absolutely none of that has happened. Instead, the show has taunted fans with an ongoing equilibrium of cynical queerbaiting, while acting as though a handful of episodes featuring a nerdy redheaded lesbian femme constitutes sufficient compensation.

Supernatural‘s other greatest sin is its wanton murder of female characters. Buffy may have come under a lot of criticism for fridging a beloved female character, but Supernatural winkingly lampshades its tendency to fridge women as if that somehow makes it okay.

I won’t pretend I don’t love Supernatural – I’m the middle of three brothers, so it always had me on that count alone – but I also can’t pretend that it’s not a profoundly, epically, perhaps fatally flawed show. I’ll watch the forthcoming tenth season, and I’ll hope that it gets better, but I know better than to hold my breath.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He wishes he knew how to quit Supernatural.

The Neverending Search for Good Sci-Fi: ‘Defiance’ Edition

‘Defiance’ is good solid alien-full science fiction television, it’s reliably entertaining each week, and it definitely has better feminist cred than many other shows.

Written by Max Thornton.

Syfy, the erstwhile Sci-Fi Channel, is not renowned for the high quality of its original programming – Sharknado 2, anyone? Still less did I expect to be especially interested in a show with a tie-in MMORPG. (I talk a big talk about interactivity and fan culture, but I’m fundamentally too lazy to participate much myself.) But the involvement of Rockne O’Bannon, creator of my beloved Farscape, was sufficient motivator for me to at least give Defiance a chance, and I’m glad I did. In our post- and sub-Battlestar Galactica televisual landscape, pure science fiction shows tend to the dreary and the grim, leaving things like “fun” and “watchability” to fantasy, whether it’s the high fantasy of Game of Thrones or the campy fantasy-horror of Sleepy Hollow and Supernatural.

One day I will write about this wonderful, wonderful show.

God knows I try. I gave The Tomorrow People a fair chance, I gave Helix a fair chance (incredibly, it’s been renewed), I’m giving Extant a fair chance. I want good SF on my TV, preferably something with spaceships and aliens, to fill the void left by assorted Star Treks and Firefly and Farscape, but in all honesty Orphan Black is the only really quality sci-fi show on television at the moment.

Enter Defiance. Now, Defiance is not BSG, but it is good solid alien-full science fiction television, it’s reliably entertaining each week, and it definitely has better feminist cred than many of the other shows I have already mentioned.

A few decades after the arrival of extra-terrestrial life, Earth hosts an uneasy peace between humans and the various alien species. The former St. Louis is now the titular polis, where a number of different species, languages, and cultures coexist under the mayoral leadership of Julie Benz, whose improbably-named sister Kenya runs a brothel. Perhaps the central characters of the show, insofar as a show whose setting is its true protagonist can be said to have central characters, are the young alien Irisa and her adoptive human father.

Stephanie Leonidas as Irisa. You can tell she's an alien because she has a funny forehead. — Stephanie Leonidas as Irisa. You can tell she’s an alien because she has a funny forehead.

Irisa is one of my favorite things about the show. She appears to be some sort of Chosen One, and it’s amazing how much better the hoary old Chosen One trope becomes when its beneficiary is not a white man. She’s part of a chosen, interspecies family, and while she and her father love each other dearly, they sometimes struggle to understand one another. Irisa’s efforts to understand herself and her place in the world are somewhat analogous to the issues faced by transracial adoptees, who may have rather complicated relationships with their ethnicity.

Indeed, Defiance offers a number of sci-fi analogues to real-world issues (and, God help me, this is something I adore in my speculative fiction). One subplot follows an interspecies couple as the human wife faces difficulties in comprehending her husband’s alien culture, with its powerful honor/shame culture and its communal bathing habits. Another subplot explores workers’ rights and collective action as both human and alien laborers work in dangerous conditions in the mines. All of the aliens are immigrants, trying to negotiate the place of their culture and customs within those of the humans among whom they live, and there are resonances of (post)colonialism and the fight for independence in the masterplot of Defiance’s struggle for self-governance.

There’s an instructive comparison to be made with new show Dominion, which airs immediately after Defiance and of which I could only stomach two episodes. Its Chosen One is a deeply boring white dude, and its one significant female character is defined entirely by her father (the city’s leader), her love for the Chosen One, and the arranged marriage her father wants to push her into. There’s a waifish cancerous-looking child that the Chosen One has taken under his wing because he’s just such a good guy, and the Chosen One has a lot of manpain about putting his boring girlfriend and his blonde lisping surrogate daughter at risk by being the Chosen One. It’s all offensively tedious.

Perhaps neither Dominion nor Defiance is doing anything we haven’t seen before, but Defiance is at least doing it with good politics, interesting characters, and a fair amount of style.

Take, for example, a powerful exchange in the most recent episode between the current and former mayors. The new and heretofore unlikable mayor, quite shaken by a minor assault, talks about his teen experience of being violently raped. The ex-mayor opens up about her own rape and subsequent abortion, and the following exchange ensues:

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I didn’t want you to think you were alone, because you’re not.”

“That’s the kindest thing… thank you.”

Rape As Backstory is a trope that surely needs a few centuries of retirement, but I have rarely seen a male and a female survivor bond in a scene of such sensitivity. Let’s hope the show continues to handle it well.

Mayor Darla? I'd vote for her — Mayor Darla? I’d vote for her

Defiance is no replacement for Farscape, but it’s about as close as we’re currently getting.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.

‘Outland’: An Unsung Treat for Queer Sci-Fi Fans

‘Outland’ is a little-known but hilarious Australian miniseries about five gay nerds in Melbourne. It has been called “a gay answer to ‘The Big Bang Theory,’” but I don’t think this description does it justice.

Written by Max Thornton.

Outland is a little-known but hilarious Australian miniseries about five gay nerds in Melbourne. The six half-hour episodes aired on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in 2012. Each of the first five focuses on a different member of the group, as each takes his or her turn hosting their sci-fi movie-watching club and nothing goes according to plan.

First there’s Max. Max is the closest thing this show has to the everyman character, the Ted Mosby or Jim Halpert – but this is a show about queer nerds, so he’s a gay science fiction enthusiast with an anxiety disorder. As far as I’m concerned, this makes him far more relatable than the Mosbys and Halperts of the televisual landscape.

The excellent second episode focuses on Rae, who is coping with the aftermath of her breakup from her girlfriend, Simone. Max voices his sympathy for Rae’s situation as a lesbian of color in a wheelchair: “Black, gay, and disabled – it’s like a discrimination trifecta.” She responds by quoting James Baldwin and then agreeing to have a nude photo of her displayed in an art exhibit. Rae is the literal best.

Then there’s Andy, the openly kinky one. As his friends try to get him down from his ceiling harness (this is a sitcom), Andy expounds upon the connection between his two favorite hobbies: “Science fiction and sex: they’re two sides of the same coin. Exploration, adventure, discovery…” In the DVD special features, writers John Richards and Adam Richard make it clear that this isn’t wholly a joke. There’s a thematic throughline undergirding the whole series which draws parallels between geekdom and queerness, from Max loudly “coming out of two closets” to the whole gang narrowly avoiding a queerbashing as they cosplay on their way to Pride. Being queer and being a nerd are two ways of being outside of the mainstream, and forming countercultural communities are a (perhaps the) major way for outsiders to survive.

Even communities with really really low effects budgets!

Fab is probably the most stereotypically gay character. He’s a flaming queen, he’s delightfully bitchy, he has tragically flamboyant fashion sense, and he lives with his nan. This is a great way for the writers to sneak in a bit of social commentary – when the others are creeped out by being around an old person, Andy points out, “You’re only saying that because we’ve been conditioned to believe that aging is the worst thing that can happen to a gay man.”

The last member of the gang is Toby. Poor Toby, whom nobody likes. Toby is an uptight rich kid who’s sure nobody outside of the group knows about his obvious queerness. His episode has songs and dancing and is totally amazing.

In the final episode, the splintered gang tries to overcome their assorted squabbles and neuroses to reunite for Pride. As a frustrated Max says, “All I wanted was a group where I could fancy the guy from Farscape without anyone making a big deal out of it!” Ultimately it’s the external threat that brings them back together, as the nerds realize that, as dysfunctional as their little group is, it’s a community that serves their needs in a hostile world.

Outland has been called “a gay answer to The Big Bang Theory,” but I don’t think this description does it justice. The Big Bang Theory has (or had, when I last watched it, which was admittedly several years ago now) a palpable contempt for its characters, and concomitantly for the nerd culture it purports to portray. Outland, on the other hand, comes from a genuine place of affection for its characters and their geeky pastimes. This is evident in a wonderful subtlety of Outland, which is that its nerds have overlapping but distinct nerdy interests. Toby is the one who collects figurines; Max is the one who owns a Dalek suit; Rae is the one who’s into gender politics and Ursula LeGuin (obviously). This entirely reflects my experience with sci-fi club: we all loved science fiction and fantasy, we were all conversant in the obvious stuff, but everyone had their niche – Tim was our Middle-Earth expert, Michael knew everything there was to know about comic books, Heda was a Star Wars extended universe obsessive. (I was the go-to guy for zombies and B-movies.) Over the nearly 100 episodes of Big Bang I saw, I don’t recall ever seeing the specific interests of Howard, Leonard, Raj, and Sheldon being so well delineated as the Outland crew’s in six. This is nowhere better illustrated than in the group’s cosplay effort, where the interests and personality of each character shine in each specific iteration of the same costume.

Dressed as Lulara from show-within-a-show Space Station Beta. — Dressed as Lulara from show-within-a-show *Space Station Beta*.

Outland is broader and less nuanced than Spaced (oh, Spaced, will anything ever match your brilliance?), but it’s perhaps the closest thing we have to a queer Spaced. It’s unfortunately lacking in female characters; episode 2 is the only one that passes the Bechdel test, and you almost wonder if there’s self-awareness in making Rae do triple duty as the proverbial black disabled lesbian – oh, hell, can we just see a spinoff that follows Simone’s splinter group, the Lesbian Separatist Feminist Fantasy League?

Until the day we see a specifically lesbian and/or trans nerd sitcom, though, Outland is a delightful and very funny show (even if it can, alas, only be imported at great expense in the wrong DVD region).

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He’d like to thank his friend Gary for hooking him up with the Outland DVD.

‘Faking It’: Better Than You Thought

Rather than being the exploitative show about straight girls playing gay that everyone expected, ‘Faking It’ has turned out to be an exploration of the blurry lines between friendship and romance.

Written by Max Thornton.

When I heard the premise of Faking It, I eyerolled so hard it hurt. I Kissed a Girl: The TV Show? Wow, that’s definitely what pop culture needs in 2014. But there’s almost nothing else on TV at the moment, so I watched it anyway, and…I kind of love it.

Make no mistake, this is not a good show: it is cheesy and melodramatic and cliche-ridden, and I honestly don’t know if it’s even self-aware in moments like the one where Teen Andrew Rannells calls Bargain-Basement Regina George “so two-dimensional, she’s practically a character on Glee.” And yet it’s eminently watchable, and it’s perhaps doing something a little interesting with the well-worn trope of the lesbian who’s in love with her straight friend.

I swear it's not as terrible as it looks. — I swear it’s not as terrible as it looks.

The premise is actually a little more nuanced than the way it’s been sold: two girls who attend a super-progressive high school are taken for lesbians and decide to roll with it to increase their popularity (apparently such schools do exist). The way it’s been promoted has suggested that the two girls take a much more active role in the deception than they actually do – it’s more that they are publicly and dramatically outed by Teen Andrew Rannells, and no one will believe their demurrals.

Karma (Katie Stevens), whose parents are ridiculous hippies, is definitely faking it. Amy (Rita Volk), who has conservative Christian parents, is probably not faking it. Their portmanteau name is Karmy.

Tumblr takes Karmy very seriously. — Tumblr takes Karmy *very* seriously.

Someone on the show referred to “the lipstick one,” but they are both so femmey I honestly didn’t know which one he meant until Karma pulled out fake eyelashes and Amy said, “I guess that makes me the butch one.” Thanks for the clarification, show.

Bargain-Basement Regina George is about to become Amy’s stepsister, which is a potentially intriguing twist that has been squandered. It’s used not to deepen the Regina George character at all but just to make life even more difficult for poor Amy.

Meanwhile Teen Andrew Rannells (Michael Willett) and Bargain-Basement Edward Cullen (Gregg Sulkin) are BFFs. Teen Andrew Rannells is super enthusiastic about having lesbian friends, while Bargain-Basement Edward Cullen and Karma have a gross secret affair that 0 percent of all viewers are emotionally invested in. It’s gross and terrible and Karma needs to get hit upside the head with the cluebat. But it is neat that the gay boy’s straight best friend is a dude, rather than a woman as in 99 percent of pop culture. As repellent as Bargain-Basement Edward Cullen is, it’s refreshing to see a close onscreen friendship between a gay teen boy and a straight teen boy that isn’t full of “no homo.”

Sure, their characters have names, but they'll always be Teen Andrew Rannells and Bargain-Basement Edward Cullen to me. — Sure, their characters have names, but they’ll always be Teen Andrew Rannells and Bargain-Basement Edward Cullen to me.

Hijinks and soul-searching ensue, as Karma is terrible and Amy tries to figure out her sexuality. (“I don’t want to meet another girl.” “Boy?” “I don’t want to meet another boy.” “That limits your options.” Oh honey, not as severely as you think.) The very end of the season took an unfortunate turn into a well-trod territory that needed to happen on TV never again. It might be narratively justifiable, but it seems like every single fictional lesbian ever has slept with a man, and that really needs to stop.

As Autostraddle recapper Riese pointed out, “best friendship in high school is often nearly indistinguishable from girlfriendship.” Rather than being the exploitative show about straight girls playing gay that everyone expected, Faking It has turned out to be an exploration of the blurry lines between friendship and romance.

In some ways, the show it most reminds me of is the British series Sugar Rush (which debuted almost a decade ago, oh god I feel old). Sugar Rush was another show about a high-school lesbian in love with her straight best friend, and it was also somewhat prone to cheese and melodrama, but – you know what? That is honest to the teen experience. Teenagers are prone to cheese and melodrama, especially teenagers who are struggling to figure out their sexuality (and/or hopelessly in love with their best friend).

For all its faults, Sugar Rush was formative for me as a budding queer, and for that reason it will always have a special place in my heart. American teens in 2014 have more lesbionic televisual role models than British teens in 2005; even so, if Faking It can be for even one kid what Sugar Rush was for me, its existence will be justified.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He’s sorry if you now have ‘I Kissed A Girl’ stuck in your head. If it’s any consolation, he does too.

‘Gravity Falls’: Manliness, Silliness, and a Whole Lot of Awesome

Figuring out who you are in the face of societal pressures that buffet you every which way is the trial of growing up, and helping people to do that is one of feminism’s goals. It’s also at the heart of ‘Gravity Falls’, which helps cement this for me as an exciting show.

This repost by Max Thornton appears as part of our theme week on Children’s Television.

I am too old for the Disney Channel. The bright candy colors, the rapid-fire pacing, the saccharine music and headache-y flash-cuts and forced zaniness – it all adds up to one massively hyperstimulating, sugar-coated migraine. Half an hour of all that on a Saturday morning and I am ready to bounce off the ceiling before crashing to earth semi-comatose for the rest of the day.

If you can overcome (or, better, avoid entirely) the excruciating commercials and the overstimulation of the Disney Channel milieu, however, you can experience maybe the most exciting television debut of 2012.

Welcome to Gravity Falls.

Gravity Falls established a pretty dense mythology for itself, jam-packed with occult imagery, cryptograms, conspiracies, clever callbacks, and hidden Easter eggs (and there are already plenty of websites devoted to deciphering this stuff). It’s an enormously fun show, chronicling the supernatural adventures of 12-year-old twins Dipper and Mabel in the creepy, not-quite-right town of Gravity Falls, Oregon. The level of care and detail lavished on the world-building is matched by the depth and – if I can say this of an animated Disney Channel show – realism of the characters.

Dipper and Mabel, voiced by Jason Ritter and Kristen Schaal, are wonderfully characterized as not just siblings but true friends: despite their personality differences, they enjoy spending time together, and although they needle and mock each other, they always have each other’s back. As somebody whose siblings are my best friends, I find it rings very true to life, and the only other show I can think of with a comparably close sibling dynamic is Bob’s Burgers –where, coincidentally, one of the siblings is also voiced by Schaal.

The twins’ age is a savvy writing choice that allows for some spot-on exploration of themes of growing up, pitching the show niftily at the crossover-hit sweet spot for both younger and older viewers. A grown-up trying to convince other grown-ups to watch a Disney Channel animated show can certainly relate to the twins’ swithering between the childish excitement of their supernatural adventures and their desire to prove themselves cool enough for the local teenagers (including Dipper’s hopeless and completely understandable crush, Linda Cardellini-voiced Wendy). Two specific episodes of Gravity Falls work well as companion pieces exploring Dipper and Mabel’s respective struggles to establish their identities.

Season 1, Episode 6: “Dipper Vs. Manliness”


A cutie patootie.

Dipper is the more introspective, bookish twin – as Mabel puts it, he’s “not exactly Manly Mannington.” When an old “manliness tester” machine at the local diner declares him “a cutie patootie,” Dipper’s insecurity about being a man goes into overdrive, and he seeks training in the ways of manliness from a group of Manotaurs (“half man, half… taur!” “I have three Y-chromosomes, six Adam’s apples, pecs on my abs, and fists for nipples!”).

Anyone who’s been a feminist longer than five minutes knows that the enforcement of gender roles harms men as well as women, and this episode features a lot of great jokes lampooning the sheer absurdity of what’s considered manly in our society: the pack of REAL MAN JERKY emblazoned with the slogan YOU’RE INADEQUATE!, the Manotaur council that involves beating the crap out of each other, Dipper convincing the reluctant Manotaurs to help him (“using some sort of brain magic!”) by suggesting they’re not manly enough to do it.

In the end, it’s Dipper’s love for a thinly veiled “Dancing Queen” pastiche that causes him to defy the Manotaurs’ stereotypical definition of manliness. His enjoyment of something considered “girly” opens his eyes to the nonsensical restrictiveness of traditional gender roles. As he says in his climactic speech to the Manotaurs: “You keep telling me that being a man means doing all these tasks and being aggro all the time, but I’m starting to think that stuff’s malarkey. You heard me: malarkey!”

Rejecting the Manotaur’s version of manliness does not, however, answer Dipper’s agonized question about the nature of masculinity: “Is it mental? Is it physical? What’s the secret?” (And how many times have I myself asked that question?) Although the episode puts a neat bow on Dipper’s arc by offering a pat moral – “You did what was right even though no one agreed with you. Sounds pretty manly to me” – it’s made fairly clear that masculinity and femininity do not have to be discrete, oppositional spheres rooted in stereotypes, and the question of what makes a man is left open – as, perhaps, it should be.

Season 1, Episode 8: “Irrational Treasure”

Mabel is the best. She’s my favorite character, and with every episode I love her even more. Her quest for self in “Irrational Treasure” is not a direct counterpart to Dipper’s search for manliness – Mabel is pretty comfortable with both the ways in which she is conventionally feminine and the ways in which she is not (reflecting the sad reality that girls’ freedom to express masculinity is not mirrored by an equivalent freedom for boys to express femininity). In the show’s fourth episode, “The Hand That Rocks the Mabel,” she confronts the societal pressures around dating while female, as she struggles with how to extricate herself from a coercive romantic relationship with the creepy Lil Gideon – an object lesson in how messed up are our society’s ideas of the romantic pursuit of uninterested women by persistent men – but in this episode she faces a less explicitly gendered problem: how to convince everyone that she’s not silly.

The delightfully goofy hijinks of this episode – involving a conspiracy to cover up the existence of Quentin Trembley, the peanut-brittle-preserved eighth-and-a-half president of the United States – are propelled by Mabel’s quest to prove her seriousness to rival Pacifica Northwest. Pacifica is a pretty stereotypical stuck-up-rich-mean-girl archetype thus far, but it seems distinctly possible that an interesting character arc could await her in future. “You look and act ridiculous,” she tells Mabel with scorn, and Mabel takes her peer’s cruelty to heart the way only a pre-teen can. “I thought I was being charming,” she says dejectedly, “but I guess people see me as a big joke.”


Don’t worry Mabel, you really are so so charming.

As it was Dipper’s non-manliness that ultimately proved him a real man, so it’s Mabel’s silliness that saves the day here, allowing her to crack all the clues for the conspiracy and help President Trembley escape the local police (who, despite being called serious by Mabel, are in fact extremely silly). By the episode’s end, Mabel is impervious to Pacifica’s jibes: “I’ve got nothing to prove. I’ve learned that being silly is awesome.”

Figuring out who you are in the face of societal pressures that buffet you every which way is the trial of growing up, and helping people to do that is one of feminism’s goals. It’s also at the heart of Gravity Falls, which helps cement this for me as an exciting show. (Plus, it’s apparently indoctrinating kids into occult symbolism. Cool.)

Trans Men on TV: ‘Orphan Black’ and Tony the Trans Bandit

It is, apparently, very difficult to put a good trans character in your TV show. Recent attempts at portraying trans men have tended to leave something to be desired. And last week on ‘Orphan Black,’ along came Tony.

Written by Max Thornton.

It is, apparently, very difficult to put a good trans character in your TV show. Recent attempts at portraying trans men have tended to leave something to be desired. Max on The L Word perpetuated a number of troubling stereotypes about masculinity and trans men. Adam on Degrassi wound up being another in a long line of buried queers. I understand Cole on The Fosters is something of a bright spot in the trans televisual darkness, though I have not yet watched the show (I’ll report back once I have). And last week on Orphan Black, along came Tony.

Now my colleagues here at Bitch Flicks have written some great pieces on Orphan Black, drawing attention to some crucial feminist elements, from the expansive female character list to the commentary on reproductive rights. In season two, I have been particularly enjoying the camaraderie between the clones, the way that they google hangout together and claim each other as sisters.

And then Tony happened.

Here are the things I like about Tony:

His existence. Metatextually, it’s awesome to have another trans guy on TV. Narratively, it’s really intriguing. Once you think about it, the fact that there is now a trans clone and a gay clone strikes an important blow against “born this way” reductionism.

The way the other characters treated him. They were all down with his pronouns, were mildly surprised at having a male clone but didn’t make a huge deal out of it, and gave a little exposition that might catch the less-clued-in viewers up to speed without sensationalizing transness.

Here are the things I dislike about Tony:

His facial hair. The Max Sweeney School of Facepubes is not an institution anyone ever should be attending. I guess I can forgive the awful head-hair, because I’m given to understand a short-haired wig was unworkable with Maslany’s real hair, which she needs for the other parts, but the facial hair? Nope nope nope.

NO. — Daniela Sea pubing it up as Max Sweeney on *The L Word*.

His characterization. Tatiana Maslany is a monumentally talented actress, playing multiple characters with nuance, and I really think this is her first misstep on the show. Her portrayal of Tony seemed undercooked compared to how thoroughly she inhabits the other clones. There was an air of trying too hard about Tony’s masculinity, something I would believe in the portrayal of a trans guy who was just coming out, but – in a guy who had begun transition as long ago as we were evidently meant to believe Tony did (contra The L Word, testosterone doesn’t make facepubes all grow in at once; I’m rising 16 months and can barely muster an outline of straggly pubescent scruff) – it rang false. Watching the other clones, I forget that I’m watching an actor act; with Tony, I was fully conscious of it the entire time.

This is unfortunate, because there’s already a terrible cultural misperception that trans people are faking it, acting, deceiving, putting it on. I don’t think this is helped by continuing to cast cis people of the wrong gender as trans characters (Daniela Sea on The L Word, Jordan Todosey on Degrassi, back to Hilary Swank in Boys Don’t Cry, and that’s not even getting into the much longer and more offensive list of men playing trans women… thank God for Tom Phelan, at least).

A trans person playing a trans character! Will wonders never cease?? — Tom Phelan as Cole on *The Fosters*.

A show about clones has pretty much the best possible justification for casting a cis woman as a trans man, but Maslany’s failure to really nail the character, as she does all the rest, kind of makes this portrayal seem like it belongs on that list.

Here is a thing I am still on the fence about:

The decision to show Tony injecting T. You could make an argument that it was a bit of gratuitous, othering exploitation; you could also make an argument that it was a normalizing teachable moment for your average non-trans-adjacent viewer. I haven’t decided yet which side I come down on.

In the end, I am glad Tony exists. He’s an important contributor to the still-tiny demographic of trans guys on TV, and the show didn’t get anything majorly wrong about transness (apart from the facepubes). Tony did not return in this week’s episode, but I hope he will be back on our screens in future, and I hope that next time around Tatiana Maslany will have nailed down the character and will play him more convincingly.

Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He absolutely did not name himself after Max Sweeney.

Maria Bamford: Challenging Mental Health Stigma Through Comedy

For whatever reason, all the reactionary tropes inherent in pop culture seem to get amplified in comedy. If it’s still rare to find a mainstream comedian with openly feminist leanings, finding one who speaks openly and progressively about mental illness is almost impossible.

Written by Max Thornton.

One of the true blessings of my grad school experience thus far has been a relative openness about mental illness. My fellow students and I compare notes on our medications, encourage each other to get the help we need, even theorize about our mental illnesses in papers and dissertations. Perhaps this is uncommon outside of programs with “philosophy” in the title – maybe even outside of the two graduate institutions I have attended – but it’s certainly almost unknown in wider society.

The more disability and crip theory I read, the more I notice the prevalence of ableist rhetoric in pop culture, from patronizing Hollywood Oscar-bait to problematic portrayals of Deaf culture to miracle cures to the uncritical, pervasive use of the language of disabilities to describe things that are bad.

And, for whatever reason, all the reactionary tropes inherent in pop culture seem to get amplified in comedy. If it’s still rare to find a mainstream comedian with openly feminist leanings, finding one who speaks openly and progressively about mental illness is almost impossible.

Luckily, there's at least one. — Luckily, there’s at least one.

It’s probably incorrect to call Maria Bamford “mainstream,” despite her ongoing voice work on Adventure Time and those Target ads from a couple years ago.

[youtube_sc url=”http://youtu.be/Eh9vddkombM”]

“Watch it again. Sometimes it takes a second to get it” is not a bad mantra for Bamford’s stand-up. Hers is an unusual brand of existentialist tragicomedy specializing in the use of funny voices.

My introduction to Bamford’s work came a few years ago, when I stumbled across her series of 20 short videos, The Maria Bamford Show. The show is about Bamford’s experience of moving back in with her (hilariously Midwestern) parents after a breakdown, which was not wholly irrelevant to my own life when I first saw it. Using her endless arsenal of voices and her wonderfully expressive face, Bamford performs all the characters – her parents, her sister, old high-school rivals – in their interactions with herself. It’s odd, idiosyncratic, and hilarious (doubly so once you have heard her parents speak at the end of her Special Special Special and realized just how spot-on her impressions of them are).

My favorite entry in The Maria Bamford Show, hands down, is episode 10, “Dark.”

[youtube_sc url=”http://youtu.be/SCqDReW8f_s”]

If I had to pick a single clip as a quintessential encapsulation of what I love about Bamford’s work, it would have to be that one. It’s hilarious and sad, painfully relatable for anyone with experience of mental illness, existential and weirdly comforting, all at the same time.

Bamford also tackles the social stigma around mental illness in a head-on fashion. In the Special Special Special (currently streaming on Netflix! Go watch it!), she uses one of her most brilliant jokes:

People don’t talk about mental illnesses the way they do other illnesses. [snooty voice] ‘Apparently Steve has cancer. It’s like, fuck off! We all have cancer.’

This bit is not incidental to Bamford’s comedy agenda. In interviews, she makes it explicit that, while she doesn’t have an idealistic view of comedy as world-changing, one of her goals is to make a small-scale challenge to the mental illness stigma:

[A]t least I can try to change it for myself. Because I feel super insecure and embarrassed and ashamed about mental health issues.

As wonderful and important as her focus on mental illness is, it would be unfair to reduce Bamford solely to a “mental illness comedian.” As a woman on the far side of 40, she has an important and under-heard perspective on sexism and ageism in the entertainment industry. For example, at the beginning of this clip, she responds to a suggestion that she should use Botox by exploring the range of excellent things she can do with her face:

[youtube_sc url=”http://youtu.be/GQyPCcuVHiI”]

Maria Bamford is not interested in conforming to conventional beauty standards. She’s not interested in conforming to convention, period. Thank Diet Coke and People magazine for that.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. Once Maria Bamford favorite one of his tweets.

Violence, Fat Women, and Transphobia: The Latest ‘Louie’ Controversy

In the 18 months ‘Louie’ was off the air, you might have forgotten just how much debate this show generates. But in the two Mondays of its fourth season to date, Louis C.K.’s odd FX comedy has caused enough controversy to set the blogosphere abuzz.

In the 18 months Louie was off the air, you might have forgotten just how much debate this show generates. But in the two Mondays of its fourth season to date, Louis C.K.’s odd FX comedy has caused enough controversy to set the blogosphere abuzz.

FX has made the strange decision to burn off two episodes at a time, meaning that four episodes have aired thus far (and I’m going to be spoiling them, so consider this fair warning). Last week, the episode that sparked a couple of Salon thinkpieces was the one titled “Model.” Prachi Gupta summarizes:

Louie meets a beautiful model (rather, a beautiful model pursues Louie), she takes him to her house, and they have sex. While in bed, the woman (Yvonne Strahovski) tickles Louie, despite his urgent warnings that he doesn’t like being tickled. Losing control of his body, Louie then turns and, fully accidentally, hits the woman in the eye. She is taken to the hospital, and Louie is faced with a potential lawsuit from the woman’s family, the disdain of his friends for hitting a woman and the knowledge that “her pupil is paralyzed.”

The title of Gupta’s piece is “Louie hits a woman – but it’s not his fault.” I’m reminded of the controversial season three rape scene of 2012, wherein Louie is sexually assaulted by the woman he is on a date with, and the conflicting feelings brought forth by that. Is the rape of men by women an underreported real-world issue that deserves to be acknowledged more than it is? Absolutely. Did the episode handle the issue in an appropriately sensitive and careful manner? Probably not. Did it nonetheless bring the issue to the attention of people who may not otherwise have considered it? I am willing to believe that it did.

It's so hard to be a white dude these days. — It’s so hard to be a white dude these days.

Similarly: Does violence against women sometimes happen in a context where it is truly accidental? Surely it does. But does this episode make a meaningful contribution to the cultural discourse around this topic? I’m not convinced, especially because male celebrities frequently beat women with impunity. Louie the character may be schlubby and unsuccessful, but Louis C.K. the real person is a real-life celebrity. I say this not to slander real-life Louis C.K. by implying that he beats women – to the best of my knowledge, he has never done so – but to point out that, if he did, there would likely be no consequences.

As such, isn’t it arguably a little disingenuous of C.K. to present us with a situation where his onscreen self hits a woman, but it isn’t his fault and he pays a steep price for it? Jennifer Keishin Armstrong suggests that this disingenuousness extends to the whole conceit of the character’s socioeconomic status. It’s not only unfair to pretend that Louie is just one of hoi polloi, it also perpetuates a cultural image of “poor” that is really a representation of robust (upper-)middle-class existence.

Alas, talking about socioeconomic injustice or violence against women is far less of a clickbait than debating the fuckability of a fat woman, so a great deal more discussion has been generated by this week’s episode “So Did The Fat Lady,” in which Louie is made increasingly uncomfortable by the romantic advances of a fat girl (Sarah Baker) until she bursts out in a monologue about the trials of dating while fat.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFdWcNJ17YY”]

The debate was instantaneous and plenteous. The episode has been hailed as the start of a necessary conversation. It has been seen, with some frustration and disappointment, as the only way to get a fat woman’s voice out there. It has been scorned as clueless condescension that perpetuates fat-hating stereotypes.

I’m not fat or a woman, so I’m not going to mansplain the right way to react. I will just say that you should go read all of those pieces, as well as this interview with the lovely Sarah Baker and this piece by another actress who auditioned for the part, and try to take on board what everyone is saying.

What I can speak meaningfully to, however, is a little bit that has gotten overlooked in all the conversations, and that is the last 45 seconds of this week’s second episode, “Elevator (Part 1).” In a short section of standup that airs over the end credits, Louis C.K. delivers the following monologue:

I have two daughters, so I’m raising two future women. You know? Maybe. I mean, one of ’em might be a guy later. [audience laughter] It’s possible. [C.K. chuckles] It could happen. Someday one of my daughters will say, “Dad, I’m really a guy.” [laughter] And I’ll be like, “Eh, well, let’s get you a dick. [loud laughter] Let’s get you a dick, honey. I’m gonna get you the nicest dick in town. [shrieks of laughter; C.K. grins] Nothing’s too good for my little girl.” [laughter]

C.K. reacts to his own bit so I don't have to — C.K. reacts to his own bit so I don’t have to

When I wrote about Louis C.K. for our Male Feminists and Allies theme week back in November, I expressed my hope for his improvement on gender and trans issues. This is not what I had in mind. If C.K. really is aware and accepting of the possibility that one of his daughters might be trans, that’s terrific for them, but I somehow don’t think that turning this into a punchline is the best way of expressing this acceptance. Call me humorless, but in my experience it isn’t exactly sidesplitting to have to tell your parents that you’re not the gender they thought you were. And having them deliberately misgender you and objectify your genitals in the guise of supporting you, solely for the sake of a cheap laugh, sounds like no fun at all.

I expect better, Louis C.K. I expect a lot better.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He wrote this piece when he should have been working on his final theology paper.

‘Irreversible’: Deconstructing Rape Revenge

‘Irreversible’ deconstructs the ethically dubious pleasures of the rape revenge genre through its structure as well as its plot. Its reverse chronology inverts the formula of rape-then-revenge, thereby robbing the viewer of any sense, however questionable, of justice done, and subverting the whole economy of violence.

Written by Max Thornton as part of our theme week on Rape Revenge Fantasies.

This piece contains spoilers.

Confession: I didn’t actually rewatch Irreversible before writing this piece. Back in 2007, it was included in an A.V. Club article on “24 Great Films Too Painful To Watch Twice,” and if I was ever going to try to prove that piece wrong, it certainly wouldn’t be during the most important week in my religion’s calendar. (Rape revenge movies are kind of the antithesis of Jesus in basically every respect.)

But I feel no real need to rewatch this movie, because one viewing is all it took to sear it into my memory. Gaspar Noé’s second feature is a technically superb film, with a hook that would snag any cinephile: it happens backwards, with the scenes occurring in reverse chronological order. Like any rape revenge movie, this is a nasty, brutal film, telling a nasty, brutal story – and it does so deliberately, brilliantly, and harrowingly.

It’s probably fair to say that most rape revenge films have a female character doing the revenge part, whether it’s the rape survivor herself (as in I Spit on Your Grave) or her friend/relative (as in Last House on the Left), which makes the questions of morality, agency, message, and point of identification extremely complex (and no doubt my esteemed colleagues will have some incisive comments about this as the week goes on). There are elements of wish-fulfillment in the rape survivor’s violent vengeance – Carol J. Clover’s Men, Women, and Chainsaws is, of course, the classic text on the gendered complexities of viewer identification in films of this kind – and this entails all the moral quandaries of any grim fantasy: is it catharsis or titillation? Empowerment or exploitation?

In Irreversible, though, there’s no question of empowerment or catharsis, because here it’s a man who does the revenge as well as a man who does the rape. Monica Bellucci, as the film’s ostensible protagonist, doesn’t actually get to do a whole lot apart from get horrendously assaulted and viciously beaten. Her partner’s bloody revenge isn’t cathartic or gratifying for the viewer at all, not only because it’s not carried out by the survivor of the rape (nor, it turns out, against the actual rapist), but also because we see it before we see the rape.

From now on, I'm just going to use pictures of kittens and puppies who are friends, to try to mitigate the horribleness of what I am talking about. Source — From now on, I’m just going to use pictures of kittens and puppies who are friends, to try to mitigate the horribleness of what I am talking about. Source

In this way, Irreversible deconstructs the ethically dubious pleasures of the rape revenge genre through its structure as well as its plot. Its reverse chronology inverts the formula of rape-then-revenge, thereby robbing the viewer of any sense, however questionable, of justice done, and subverting the whole economy of violence.

To drive this point home, the vengeance takes place in a male gay bar, underscoring the total absence of female agency in this story. Men have all the agency here, and everything they do is awful. Women qua humans are irrelevant to the characters and the actions they take, whether those actions are nominally on behalf of them or against them.

Unfortunately, the final scene unintentionally reinforces the very dehumanization of women that the rest of the film so trenchantly unveils. The revelation that Bellucci’s character is pregnant serves only as a cheap additional twist of the knife, making her even more of a cipher by essentializing her to an incubator. It’s unnecessary, and only there to make an already devastatingly nasty film even more devastating. It’s a bit of emotional manipulation that weakens my ability to perform a feminist reading of the film, because it doesn’t let the awful violations of the protagonist be awful just because she’s, you know, a human being. Suddenly they’re extra awful because she had a BABBY inside her, and now her value as baby-maker/incubator is diminished. For the most part, Irreversible is deliberately grueling and horrible as an attempt to convey some of the true awfulness of a rape victim’s experience, but the choice to end the film on this moment seems to send the message that it was especially bad for both Bellucci and her partner because they were about to be a happy heteronormative family, which would have enabled her to find true fulfillment as a woman!!1

Despite this regrettable choice of ending, Irreversible is a valuable deconstruction of rape-revenge tropes. It’s an excruciating experience, but a crucial one for anybody interested in cinematic portrayals of sexual violence.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.

‘Hateship Loveship’: Mehship

With a slight tonal shift, this could have been a really interesting story. There are all kinds of interesting places this could go, but ‘Hateship Loveship’ doesn’t take this route. It’s a shame, because it winds up being rather a non-story.

We all know, and are deeply offended by, this story: the bad boy who is redeemed by the love of a good woman. We’ve spilled oceans of ink in our feminist critiques of the harm perpetuated by this cultural narrative. The man is allowed to have dimensions, flaws, agency, character; the woman can only be meek, conventionally pretty, good at traditional feminine pursuits like cooking and cleaning. She sacrifices all sense of self, existing only as a prop for his betterment.

It’s such a tedious cliché, we don’t even really need to rehearse the critiques anymore, taking them for granted as a baseline of feminist criticism. But have you ever wondered what this story looks like from the perspective of the woman?

Me neither.

Hateship Loveship, the new film by Liza Johnson of Return (non-)fame, does an uneven job of answering this unasked question.

Kristen Wiig takes on her first fully non-comedic role as Johanna, the stiff and taciturn caretaker whose employer passes away in the film’s first scene. Johanna is hired to be housekeeper and vaguely parental influence for teenage Sabitha (Hailee Steinfeld), who lives with her grandfather in a fancy house where her deadbeat dad is persona non grata. After briefly meeting said deadbeat dad, Johanna enters into a passionate correspondence with an email address she thinks belongs to him, but is actually run by Sabitha and her smirking, bratty friend Edith. Emboldened by “his” professions of love, Johanna throws away everything in one daredevil move, and goes to live with a man who barely knows she exists.

This is right where you’d think the story would get really interesting. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.

Hateship Loveship isn’t wholly without its merits. The main draws for me were Wiig and Steinfeld, two actors I (alongside, it seems, every feminist on planet earth) adore. Wiig’s performance in Bridesmaids had enough emotional nuance to give me confidence that she could deliver on a purely dramatic role, and she is solid here, using pointed silences and soulful stares to convey a woman whose depths and complexities are deeply suppressed by a difficult past only hinted at. Steinfeld, who knocked all our socks off a few years ago in True Grit, succeeds in giving depth and plausibility to a role that in lesser hands would seem two-dimensional.

Sabitha (Hailee Steinfeld) and Edith (Sami Gayle), being teens

Now, I have not read the Alice Munro story on which the film is based, and perhaps if I had the plot would have been more palatable to me, but it’s a poor film adaptation that cannot stand alone. I want to like a story centered on a woman who goes after what she wants and gets it, I really do. It’s just that apparently what this woman wants is to be a housewife for a hot mess of a man.

With a slight tonal shift, this could have been a really interesting story: a woman who has always been mousy and obedient is finally spurred to take decisive action to get what she thinks she wants, and her pride won’t let her back down from what, increasingly clearly, was not a very good idea. There are all kinds of interesting places this could go, but Hateship Loveship doesn’t take this route. It’s a shame, because it winds up being rather a non-story.

The screening I saw included a Q&A with Johnson and Wiig, and I had to fight the temptation to ask them: what was the point? What is the film trying to say?

Does Guy Pearce really deserve that look from Kristen Wiig? — Does Guy Pearce really deserve that look of devotion from Kristen Wiig?

As a potential subversion of the “bad boy saved by the love of a good woman” trope, it doesn’t subvert enough: Deadbeat Dad is a junkie and a crook, whose life is literally cleaned up by Johanna. Centering her doesn’t change the trajectory of the story. As a character study, it doesn’t give us enough character to work with: Johanna’s arc from quiet housemaid to, um, quiet housewife is frustratingly underdeveloped. As an unconventional love story, it has too much unexamined ick factor: who would actually enter into a relationship with a near-stranger who showed up on your doorstep claiming to have received love letters you definitely didn’t write?

There are a lot of angles this film could have taken to be something interesting, but it takes none of them and ends up as little more than a disappointment.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.