Five Amazing Movies I Just Made Up to Repeat the Same Magic as ‘Spy’

I would pay real money to watch any of these movies. The larger point though, is that I bet, if we actually tried, we could come up with amazing projects for lots of women in Hollywood that aren’t based on assuming that the only thing we want to watch them do is act sexy (or crazy). There’s no shortage of talent in the film industry, so, maybe rather than waiting for screenwriters to craft great starring roles for women at large, Hollywood could also take a closer look at the stars who are already there and custom build some awesome ‘Spy’-like films for them.

Written by Katherine Murray.

A few weeks ago on Pop Culture Happy Hour, Audie Cornish succinctly explained what’s so great about Spy: that it’s a movie custom built to use Melissa McCarthy’s talents, by a director she’s worked with for years. “The director showed us what he loves about her,” she said. Paul Feig was telling us, “Oh, I see something in this person that is so fantastic, and I’m gonna make it so the audience sees that, too.”

McCarthy shines in Spy partly because Spy was built for her to shine in – that’s not to take anything away from her performance; movies are tailored to fit A-list stars all the time. Finding a great actor and creating the right role for them is just as valid a strategy as creating a great role and then finding the right actor. That said, watching Spy reminded me that there are other female actors I’d love to see starring in custom-built projects – these are the first five that come to mind.

Emily Blunt stars in Edge of Tomorrow
Emily Blunt battling squid aliens in Edge of Tomorrow

 

Emily Blunt as a True Detective
Emily Blunt has been improving every film she’s been a part of since The Devil Wears Prada. Despite being friendly and cheerful in interviews, she has a gravitas and intensity on screen that makes us believe she could be a hardened soldier who kills squid aliens. More importantly, she exudes a quiet, self-assured kind of confidence that doesn’t involve a lot of posturing.

So far, most of Blunt’s big roles have been opposite protagonists played by somebody else – Tom Cruise in Edge of Tomorrow, Joseph Gordon-Levitt in Looper – but it would be great to see her as the central character in a similar high-concept science fiction movie. Even better, though, her grounded, more-beneath-the-surface stoicism could also make her the perfect candidate to star in a grimdark detective movie. Or, if you want my heart to explode from happiness – let her solve crimes (maybe partnered with Jessica Chastain) in season three of True Detective.

Zoe Saldana stars in Star Trek into Darkness
Zoe Saldana battling lens flares in Star Trek into Darkness

 

Zoe Saldana in Pirates of the Caribbean 6: The Sequel That’s Actually Good
Zoe Saldana is an awfully good sport. She was the hot alien in Avatar, the hot alien in Guardians of the Galaxy, and the hot human who meets aliens in Star Trek (2009). And, while I’m aware that she was also given the lead role in Colombiana, that was also mostly about being hot. Because I haven’t seen her earlier work, there’s a certain sense in which I’m taking it on faith that she has more acting chops than this but, as someone who’s been more than willing to pay $14 to see her be someone’s hot girlfriend a whole bunch of times, I’d also be willing to pay $14 to see her as something else.

The most obvious choice would be to make a better version of Colombiana – what Salt was to Angelina Jolie’s turn in Tomb Raider – an action movie that isn’t about looking sexy and stuff. But what I’d really like to see is – if we’re making a thousand million billion sequels anyway – a legitimate, well-written, exciting spin-off to Pirates of the Caribbean about Anamaria’s adventures on the high seas. I get that Johnny Depp is single-handedly the thing that saved Curse of the Black Pearl from sucking, but if they gave it an honest try and brought in Jennifer Lee as a writer, Disney could make this work.

Lucy Liu stars in Elementary
Lucy Liu battling the worst casting decision of all time in Elementary

 

Lucy Liu in a Quentin Tarantino Robot Movie or a Good Romantic Comedy (I’ll Take What I Can Get)
In the category of Missed Opportunities I Won’t Stop Complaining About, Lucy Liu, a thousand times over, should have been cast as Sherlock Holmes in Elementary. Ever since she showed up on Ally McBeal she’s had the rare ability to play a total asshole while making us all kind of love her. Also, we love her when she’s collecting people’s heads (NSFW). Despite this, she’s also shown us that she’s capable of playing warm and funny in addition to tough-as-nails, murderous, and cold.

One dream scenario would be for Quentin Tarantino to fully embrace his love of Asian cinema, and make that almost-all-Mandarin-Chinese-language action movie (set in the future, with robots) that you know he’s always wanted to make. Lucy Liu could totally go on a quest for revenge as the star of that movie. Failing that, I’d settle for a nice romantic comedy where Liu stars as a woman who’s smart and driven and a little bit acerbic, but doesn’t need to get over herself somehow or act dumb in order to fall in love.

Octavia Spencer stars in Snowpiercer
Octavia Spencer battling our corporate train-owning overlords in Snowpiercer

 

Octavia Spencer in a Dark Comedy about Hollywood
Octavia Spencer spent a long time being typecast as “that crazy lady” before she started to land more prominent roles. Even in The Help, for which she’s probably best known, she was still kind of “that crazy lady (who has a legitimate reason to be pissed off about racism [but she’s so funny when she talks about it that we don’t need to question our own attitudes and beliefs]).” And, while I had no problem taking her seriously in Snowpiercer, it’s true that she has some serious comedy chops.

I think the ideal movie for Octavia Spencer is actually something close to Spy – something that takes the way she’s been typecast throughout her career, and then uses her range as an actor to turn those expectations around. Maybe a dark comedy about a seemingly crazy lady who has more depth and sadness to her personality – like Funny People, but not so on-the-nose. Hell, it could even be a self-referential dark comedy about the way black actresses are cast in Hollywood. That would be kind of amazing.

Mila Kunis stars in Black Swan
Mila Kunis battling the cruel world of ballet in Black Swan

 

Mila Kunis in an Emotionally-Driven Russian Spy Movie
Before you say it – yeah, I know. Mila Kunis is already a huge star, and Hollywood already clearly believes she’s a box office draw. Even so, I don’t think I’ve seen her yet in a role that’s tailor made for her strengths as an actor – Black Swan (which took advantage of the confident, knowing vibe she gives off on camera) came close, but that was a supporting role opposite Natalie Portman. Last year’s Jupiter Ascending didn’t seem to know what a goldmine it had in either Kunis or Channing Tatum and wrote them both to be boring as hell while it focussed on special effects.

While Kunis got her start on That 70s Show, there’s an edge to her delivery that seems wasted on straightforward comedy, and she seems to get swallowed in sci-fi and fantasy movies. If I were building the perfect film for Mila Kunis to star in, I think it would be a complex, semi-realistic espionage movie where she plays a Russian double-agent. The story would be grounded somehow in the complicated feelings the agent had about Russia – more in the tone of The Debt than Mission Impossible. Her natural charm would make her an expert at getting close to her targets, but her unexpectedly warm heart would make it hard to pull the trigger.

 

I would pay real money to watch any of these movies – so, there you go Hollywood. That’s a guaranteed $14 you’ll get back from your investment. The larger point though, is that I bet, if we actually tried, we could come up with amazing projects for lots of women in Hollywood that aren’t based on assuming that the only thing we want to watch them do is act sexy (or crazy). There’s no shortage of talent in the film industry, so, maybe rather than waiting for screenwriters to craft great starring roles for women at large, Hollywood could also take a closer look at the stars who are already there and custom build some awesome Spy-like films for them.

 


Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies and TV (both real and made up) on her blog.

‘Jupiter Ascending’: Female-centric Fantasy That’s Not Quite Feminist

So yes, ‘Jupiter Ascending’ provides women and girls the “you’re secretly the most important person in the solar system” narrative that is so often granted to cishet white men, the demographic who already are treated as the most important people by virtue of the kyriarchy. What’s missing, however, is the part where Jupiter taps into her secret set of special skills.

Poster for 'Jupiter Ascending'
Poster for ‘Jupiter Ascending’

If you’re not on Tumblr, you might have entirely missed the existence of The Wachowskis’ space opera Jupiter Ascending. Bumped from last summer to a mercy-kill February release, it was panned by critics and ignored by audiences. Save the fannishly inclined, largely female Tumblr users who happen to populate my dashboard, who completely lost their minds over this movie. I blinked and missed its momentary theatrical release and had to wait for it on video to find out if it met the subculture hype. And I am here to report that Jupiter Ascending is a delightful cheesy sci-fi flick, if you’re into that sort of thing. And while it isn’t a feminist triumph in the way that Mad Max: Fury Road is (and even that movie’s feminism has been called into question), Jupiter Ascending is unusually suited to a female viewership, which is sadly still rather revolutionary, particularly for a genre flick.

Why does this spaceship look like a fancy mechanical fish? Why doesn't yours!?
Why does this spaceship look like a fancy mechanical fish? Why doesn’t yours!?

Gavia Baker-Whitlaw’s Daily Dot piece “Why Women Love Jupiter Ascending notes that its story “is the precise gender-flipped equivalent of all those movies where some weak-chinned rando turns out to be the Chosen One” usually with a hyper-competent and hot “Strong Female Character” acting as his guide through his Newly Discovered Destiny.  In Jupiter Ascending, Mila Kunis’s Jupiter Jones is a mild-mannered housecleaner who discovers she is actually solar system royalty after Genetically Engineered Space Werewolf Channing Tatum rescues her from an alien attack. Jupiter finds that she is at the center of a war between three royal Jovian siblings (yes I just had to look up the demonym for Jupiter I love my life) who all seek to control Earth and its seven billion harvestable humans so they can rejuvenate their youth by bathing in Soylent Green Espom Salts. She has a claim to Earth because she is the reincarnation of their mother and is also immune to bee stings. Or something. (The intricacies of the plot are not important, I only recount them here because they amuse me.)

Bees don't sting solar system royalty for some reason.
Bees don’t sting solar system royalty for some reason.

So yes, Jupiter Ascending provides women and girls the “you’re secretly the most important person in the solar system” narrative that is so often granted to cishet white men, the demographic who already are treated as the most important people by virtue of the kyriarchy (you really need to be MORE important, cishet white dudes?). What’s missing, however, is the part where Jupiter taps into her secret set of special skills, as we see with our once-mundane male Chosen Ones from The Matrix‘s Neo to The Lego Movie‘s Emmett to Wanted‘s Whatever-James-McAvoy’s-character-was-named.  She never eclipses the badassness of her Trinity-equivalent, the aforementioned Genetically-Engineered Space Werewolf, Caine Wise (one of the great joys of the film is when people call him “Wise” while he’s doing foolishly reckless things. I’m not sure if that was intentional). Caine needs to rescue Jupiter throughout the film; his preferred style of rescue is to give her a piggyback ride while he zooms around on his gravity-defying space rollerblades. If all these absurd details haven’t convinced you to watch this movie  yet, I’m not sure what will. When she’s on her own, Jupiter’s “action” is largely about contract  law.

Jupiter gets a lot of piggyback rides from Caine
Jupiter gets a lot of piggyback rides from Caine

Because Jupiter’s secret importance doesn’t come with previously untapped hyper-competence or the unique importance of her particular abilities, it is simply a royal birthright. She’s more along the lines of The Princess Diaries‘ Mia Thermopolis than Neo. And women aren’t really wanting for “you are actually a princess!” narratives.  There are 30-odd Disney movies about that. Jupiter Ascending isn’t a power fantasy, it is a wish-fulfillment fantasy.

Women already have "you're really a princess!" stories
Women already have “you’re really a princess!” stories

But it is still a fantasy for women in a big-budget sci fi movie, which is incredibly rare. Is that why Jupiter Ascending flopped at the box office, or at least why the studio lost confidence in it as a potential summer release? I suspect it has more to do with the current difficulty selling big movies without source material. If even the Wachowskis’ own Matrix trilogy (which provided the very namesake of Tasha Robinson’s Trinity Syndrome) couldn’t bring in a new era of original sci-fi blockbusters (the only two I can think of are Avatar and Pacific Rim), the failure of Jupiter Ascending seems foretold. So hopefully studios will focus on Jupiter Ascending‘s lack of source material rather than its female protagonist when they try to avoid making other movies that meet its fate. Then again, only basing movies on properties that already exist will perpetuate male-dominated stories.  So we’re kinda screwed either way, which isn’t an unfamiliar position for feminist film fans.

Eddie Redmayne as Balem Abrasax (that's the kind of character name you get with 'Jupiter Ascending')
Eddie Redmayne as Balem Abrasax (that’s the kind of character name you get with Jupiter Ascending)

Jupiter Ascending might go on to be a cult classic, and if you like bizarre scifi you should help it get there. I didn’t even get into Academy Award Winner Eddie Redmayne’s astonishingly campy performance as Balem Abrasax, who prefers the cape-but-no-shirt look and only speaks in whispers and screams (in the alternate universe where Jupiter Ascending was released in Summer 2014, Michael Keaton gazes lovingly upon his Best Actor Oscar). While Jupiter Ascending deserves accolades for providing female-centric fantasy, it doesn’t go the distance to become a truly feminist film (it is certainly nine or ten notches below Mad Max: Fury Road, which doesn’t even meet the bar for some people). But while I can’t recommend Jupiter Ascending as a feminist film, I do recommend it as a fun film. They can’t all have Furiosa.

 


Robin Hitchcock is a Pittsburgh-based writer who sadly has been stung by bees.

‘Birdman’ Is ‘Black Swan’ for Boys

‘Birdman’ bears striking similarities to ‘Black Swan,’ both in the broad strokes—each follow their protagonist’s slipping grip on sanity in the days before a high pressure stage debut—and in a strange number of superficial details—hallucinations of menacing black winged creatures, “surprise” lesbian scenes, and ambiguous suicides at least partially showcased on stage.

This review contains spoilers for both Birdman and Black Swan.

Michael Keaton in 'Birdman'
Michael Keaton in Birdman

 

Alejandro González Iñárritu’s new film Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) bears striking similarities to Darren Aronofsky’s 2010 film Black Swan, both in the broad strokes—each follow their protagonist’s slipping grip on sanity in the days before a high pressure stage debut—and in a strange number of superficial details—hallucinations of menacing black winged creatures, “surprise” lesbian scenes, and ambiguous suicides at least partially showcased on stage. Of course, these two films differ in many ways, most significantly in tone (Birdman is a black comedy, Black Swan is a chilling psychodrama if not an outright horror movie). It is in these departures that we see the significance of gender in stories about identity, art, and mental illness.

1. Phase of life

Riggan in front of his dressing room mirror in 'Birdman'
Riggan in front of his dressing room mirror in Birdman

 

Birdman‘s Riggan Thomson is a fading movie star, years after playing the title character in a series of superhero blockbusters (casting Michael Keaton in the role deepens the character tenfold). The play at the center of the film is his own adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, which he is also directing and starring in. This vanity project is Riggan’s hope to change his legacy, to transform from the kind of has-been actor who gets attention from tourists to the kind of eternally relevant artist who gets respect from theatre critics.

Nina in front of a mirror in 'Black Swan'
Nina in front of a mirror in Black Swan

Where Riggan is in the twilight of his career, Black Swan shows Nina Sayers is at the dawn of hers, as she ascends from the corps to play the Swan Queen in Swan Lake.  Nina’s transformation over the course of the film is partially a metaphor for her belated sexual awakening and maturation from girl to woman. This becoming is the crucial moment in Nina’s life; she will never face Riggan’s struggle to stay relevant. As we see from the prima ballerina Nina replaces, Winona Ryder’s Beth Turner, there is no option to age gracefully. This is why, even as Nina apparently dies at the end of the film, it is “perfect.”

 

2. Perfection vs. Superpowers

Riggan's first appears in Birdman impossibly levitating
Riggan’s first appears in Birdman, impossibly levitating

It is the pressure to be perfect that pulls Nina apart in Black Swan. Not only the physical rigors and intense competition of professional ballet, but the paradoxical obligations of womanhood as represented through her dual role as the Swan Queen and Black Swan.  But Riggan doesn’t want to be perfect, he wants to be exceptional. His delusions of his superhuman abilities are his way of reassuring himself that his existence is noteworthy, that he matters, that he deserves to be remembered.

Nina finds herself sprouting feathers
Nina finds herself sprouting feathers

Nina hallucinates body horrors and birdlike transformations reminding her of the separation between her human self and the perfection required for her role. Riggan has easily incorporated superhuman abilities into his sense of self. As a man, he is entitled to do so. Nina’s are horrific transformations as she loses her sense of self.

 

3. Rivals

Mila Kunis as Lily in 'Black Swan'
Mila Kunis as Lily in Black Swan

 

Although early marketing for Black Swan played up the “rivalry” between Nina and Mila Kunis’s Lily, Lily is not so important to the plot as she is a character foil for Nina. Lily represents the raw sexuality and effortless grace that Nina’s drive for perfection precludes her from acheiving. Lily is the Natural Beauty, the girl who can eat hamburgers and stay ballerina slim, party all night and still be perky and gorgeous in the morning, who you’ll never see touching up her lipstick but she’ll always have a perfect glossy pout. No matter how hard Nina works, she’ll never best Lily, because she’s less than her just by having to work for it at all.

Ed Norton as the difficult Method actor Mike Shiner in 'Birdman'
Edward Norton as the difficult Method actor Mike Shiner in Birdman

 

In Birdman, Riggan’s “rival” is a hotshot actor named Mike Shiner (Edward Norton), even though he is known to be difficult to work with. Mike, a rigorous method actor, is the opposite of Lily: his talent comes from his dedication to his craft. And it is Mike’s well-honed skills that make him threatening to Riggan, who landed his career through charisma, good looks, and luck. That’s not the fame Riggan wants. It is the fame of a woman, and he knows he cannot carry it into old age and beyond (see Beth Turner). As a man, Riggan is not only allowed to “work for” his success, he even more respectable for doing so.

Just before opening night, Riggan faces off with theatre critic Tabitha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan), who resents a movie star for taking up Broadway stage space that could go to a real artist. Riggan throws back the usual barbs against critics labeling art without making it: “None of it costs you anything. You risk nothing.” Putting on the airs of the hardworking artist he knows he is not, Riggan sounds just like someone denying their male privilege played any role in their success. Because achieved greatness is the highest virtue for a man.

 

4. Conclusions (the films’, and mine)

Both Birdman and Black Swan end ambiguously, with their protagonists appearing to die by suicide. In Black Swan, we see Nina’s apparent murder of Lily was not real, and that Nina rather stabbed herself. At that point in the film we’re neck deep in duality symbolism and pretty much all accept Nina attacking herself with a shard of mirror glass is a metaphor for killing the innocent side of herself, especially because girlfriend is one heck of a dancer for a stab victim.  But in the final moments first Lily, then director Thomas and the other dancers also see the wound and the audience is left thinking Nina’s suicide must have been real. Because, as I mentioned before, dying after a brilliant debut performance is actually perfect for Nina, because she has nowhere higher to go from there.

 

Nina's apparent suicide in 'Black Swan'
Nina’s apparent suicide in Black Swan

 

In Birdman, Riggan first attempts suicide by replacing a prop gun with a loaded pistol on stage. Apparently, he only shoots off his nose (earning him a superhero’s face mask of bandages). Then, after hearing Tabitha gave him a glowing review and finding personal resolution with his estranged ex-wife, his best friend, and his troubled daughter, he leaps from his hospital room window. When his daughter Sam (Emma Stone) returns to his empty hospital room with an open window, we see her horrified realization that her father probably jumped. But when she looks down to the street level, she appears confused. Then she looks up, to the sky, and her face fills with wonderment.  There’s ambiguous hope where Black Swan offers only ambiguous despair. Even in the darkest interpretation, that Riggan actually killed himself on stage and these final scenes aren’t real, we see that Riggan has successfully circumvented his fade to mediocrity. He “wins” in a way that Nina never could.

The more hopefully ambiguous final moment of 'Birdman'
The more hopefully ambiguous final moment of Birdman

 

Looking at Birdman and Black Swan as two versions of the same story highlight the immense differences men and women face in life and in art, in expectation and in reality.  It is in large part the significance of gender that makes these two movies that seem to have so much in common ultimately turn out to be quite different.

 


Robin Hitchcock is an American writer living in Cape Town who cannot fly nor grow feathers.

Guest Writer Wednesday: ‘Oz the Great and Powerful’ Rekindles the Notion that Women Are Wicked

Oz the Great and Powerful (2013)

Guest post written by Natalie Wilson. Originally published at Ms. Magazine blog . Cross-posted with permission.
Dorothy Gale—the girl who went to Oz—has been called the first true feminist hero in American children’s literature. Indeed, she was condemned by many readers, including children’s librarians, for daring to have opinions and act on them.
My grandmother introduced me to the Oz books as a child, and I have always seen her as a real-life Dorothy of sorts. Born in 1908, she loved travel and speaking her mind and–gasp–she preferred to read and write poetry than do dishes and cook. As a young woman, she did not take like a duck to the water of motherhood, and indeed seemed not to have liked it at all. To this day, she is referred to by the wider family as “abandoning” her two sons in favor of books and travel, though in fact her only abandonment was that of the traditional domestic role.
My grandmother was, in some ways, the “anti-mother” or “wicked witch” detailed so brilliantly in Crafting the Witch: Gendering Magic in Medieval and Early Modern England. That book, written by California State University at San Marcos’ associate professor of literature and writing Heidi Breuer, explores how magical, positive female figures such as Morgan le Fey morphed into the Wicked Witches that now dominate depictions of magical, powerful women—including those in the current film Oz the Great and Powerful.
The new Oz film does not include the brave and self-reliant Dorothy, nor any other character that I would identify as having my grandmother’s feminist spirit. The film speaks neither to the many strong female characters that populated L. Frank Baum’s books nor to the feminist, progressive leanings of its author. Instead, it trades in the notion that women are indeed wicked—especially those women not “tamed” by a male love interest or father figure, as well as (horror of horrors!) those women who lack nurturing, motherly characteristics.
In the film, Oscar Diggs is the one who journeys to Oz, not Dorothy, and this provides the basis for a much more traditional, or should I say regressive, story. Rather than, as in the original Oz book, having a female save many men and prove the male leader to be an ineffectual fraud, this time around we have an oafish male functioning as the love interest for various characters, transforming from ineffectual Oscar to the great and powerful Wizard and leader of Oz.
At the outset of the film, Oscar is a circus con-man/magician, readily admitting he is not a good man. Though he is framed as an unscrupulous, womanizing cad, he is also depicted as truly sweet and likable underneath—a sort of prince disguised as a beast. When Annie (Michelle Williams) tells him she is going to marry another man, the audience is meant to feel for poor Oscar—because Annie is framed as his “real love.” But by the close of the movie they are happily reunited, not as Oscar and Annie but as Oz the Wizard and Glinda the Good Witch. (This ending, by the way, and the romance threaded throughout the film, breaks a sacred belief of Baum’s that romance should not be featured in children’s tales.)
Baum’s continued insistence, both in his real life and his writing, that females are strong, capable, courageous and intelligent—and that tolerance, understanding and courage should guide one along life’s journey—are scuttled in favor of a movie heavy on special effects and light on character development, let alone any feminist or progressive message.
In contrast, the Oz books are full of intelligent, enterprising, courageous and self-reliant females. There are benevolent female rulers, such as Ozma and Lurline, as well as both good and bad witches. As noted at Bitch Flicks,
Dorothy, Ozma and Glinda serve significant leadership positions in Oz. Princess Ozma is the true hereditary ruler of Oz—her position having been usurped by The Wizard. Glinda is by far the most powerful sorceress in Oz, and both Dorothy and Ozma often defer to her wisdom. Dorothy, of course, is the plucky orphan outsider who combines resourcefulness and bravery.

Illustration of Dorothy and Toto from
L. Frank Baum’s 1900 novel.

Indeed, the books would pass the Bechdel test with flying colors. Strong friendships between women, as well as women helping other women (and various and sundry other creatures, men included), run through the 14 original books. (Some current readings posit these relationships as more than friendship, as with the queer readings of the Dorothy/Ozma relationship, but that’s another story.) There are wicked women, but they are not wicked to the extent they are in the film iterations, the current one included, nor are the wicked/bad characters very powerful. In fact, the Wicked Witch of the first Oz book fears the Cowardly Lion and the dark, and is destroyed by an angry Dorothy with a bucket of water. Before dying she concedes, “I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought a little girl like you would be able to melt me and end my wicked deeds.” The Wicked Witch in Baum’s book did not have green skin or wear an imposing outfit; instead she is a rather funny-looking figure with one eye, three braids and a raincoat.

In Baum’s version of Oz, females were allowed to have power and show anger without being castigated—something rare in books from Baum’s era. Also rare were female protagonists in children’s books, which is why, according to one scholar, “The Wizard of Oz is now almost universally acknowledged to be the earliest truly feminist American children’s book, because of spunky and tenacious Dorothy.” Baum’s work even hinted at the instability of gender—as when Ozma is first introduced as a boy named Tip. Traditionally masculine in many respects after her turn to female, Ozma’s gender is thus represented as not only about physical characteristics or appearance, but as far more complicated. Quite postmodern and queer for a children’s book from the early 1900s!
In addition to these feminist characters and depictions of gender, the books also consistently celebrate tolerance and diversity and maintain what Alison Lurie calls an “anti-colonial attitude.” This is no coincidence; rather, as documented in the BBC’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz: The True Story, “When L. Frank Baum wrote the Wonderful Wizard of Oz book, his choice of heroine was heavily influenced by the battle for women’s rights.” He was married to Maud Gage, the daughter of Matilda Joslyn Gage, the pioneering feminist and co-founder of the National Woman Suffrage Association.
While some still question feminism’s influence on Baum (as here), and it is often wrongly claimed that he and his feminist mother-in-law did not get along (as in The Dreamer of Oz), Baum’s faith in feminism never wavered. He supported feminism both within his own home (Maud ran the finances and his mother-in-law stayed with them six months out of every year) and in his writings (not only in the Oz books but in his journalistic work). Moreover, Baum thought men who did not support feminist aspirations were “selfish, opinionated, conceited or unjust—and perhaps all four combined,” and he argued that, ”The tender husband, the considerate father, the loving brother, will be found invariably championing the cause of women.” (One wonders what he would make of director Sam Raimi and his decidedly un-feminist new depiction of Oz!)
Baum’s feminist biography aside, many aspects of the books stand on their own as fictional feminist tracts. For example, the second book of the series, The Marvelous Land of Oz, features a fictional suffrage movement led by Jinjur, the female general of an all-girl army (their key weapon is knitting needles). At one point, Jinjur offers the rallying cry, “Friends, fellow-citizens and girls … we are about to begin our great Revolt against the men of Oz!” As a New York Times‘ reviewer quipped, it is too bad this female army “didn’t storm Disney next.”
Symphony rehearses live performance of
1939 Wizard of Oz soundtrack.

In contrast to the consistently anti-feminist Disney, Baum’s books can be viewed as children’s stories with distinctly feminist and progressive messages. Given that they were akin to the Harry Potter books of their day in terms of popularity and sales, this is hugely significant. Today, however, the books’ undercurrents of feminism and progressive politics have been overshadowed by the less-feminist 1939 film, The Wizard of Oz, and the many subsequent de-politicized adaptations.

In Oz the Great and Powerful, perhaps the most anti-feminist adaptation, Dorothy—the plucky and powerful girl from Kansas—is supplanted by a series of Oscar’s romantic interests, and this focus does not shift after a mighty storm transplants us from Kansas to Oz. There, Oscar quickly meets Theodora (Mila Kunis), who tells him of the prophecy that he is destined be the leader of Oz. However, she warns him, “You only become king after you defeat the Wicked Witch.” Metaphorically, for men like Oscar to achieve greatness they need to destroy powerful women. And, significantly, in order to destroy the witch Oscar must not kill her but destroy her wand—in other words, destroy her (phallic) power, destroy what makes her “like a man.” (I imagine Baum turning over in his grave).
Oscar, like the audience, does not yet know who this Wicked Witch is—a mystery that the film’s publicists went to pains to protect before it was released. This mystery suggests any female could be the Wicked Witch or, more broadly, that all women are or have the potential to be wicked.
When Oscar first meets Theodora, the audience is encouraged to view her as kind, helpful and beautiful. She, like the women from Kansas, seems taken by his charms. In contrast, her sister Evanora refers to Oscar as a “a weak, selfish and egotistical fibber.” Evanora’s fury, as well as her witchy get-up, encourages the audience to think she is the Wicked Witch. When Theodora insists Oscar is the wizard, Evanora’s caustic response—“’The wizard, or so he says. He may be an imposter. Sent here to kill us”—furthers the suspicion.
Then, when Evanora says “Maybe it’s you I’ve underestimated. Have you finally joined her side, sister?” the audience is once again encouraged to question who the “her” is. Theodora protests, “I am on no one’s side. I simply want peace. He’s a good man,” suggesting she is not on the Wicked Witch’s side. But Evanora retorts, “’Deep down you are wicked!’
Theodora then throws a ball of fire across the room, prompting the audience to once again question who the real Wicked Witch is. The mystery continues when Oz, his monkey sidekick Finley and the China Girl (a porcelain doll) spy a witchy-looking figure in the dark forest. But the scary figure turns out to be Glinda, who is quickly identified as a “good witch” not only through the ensuing dialogue but via her blonde hair and white dress.
This delaying of the true identity of the Wicked Witch and the suggestion that even good women can be, or at least appear to be, wicked, goes along with the fear of female wickedness that shaped not only the Renaissance era and its infamous witch hunts but continues to be a key trope in our own times. Sadly, the new film reifies messages contained in so many stories of the witch–that females not tied to or interested in men/family are jealous, duplicitous, vengeful and must be destroyed (or domesticated). The good females in the film function as a mother/daughter pair, both of whom, by film’s end, are tied to Oz as their patriarch.
The film can also be read as yet another story about how men are destined to lead while women are destined to mother. This goes directly against the original author’s beliefs; as his grand-daughter notes, “He was a big supporter of women getting out into the marketplace and men connecting with the children and spending time at home.” In direct contrast, the film punishes female entrepreneurial spirit and pluck and never suggests that any of Oscar’s greatness comes from his desire to spend time at home. Instead, he is ultimately rewarded by becoming the “great and powerful” man the title refers to, and the female characters are either punished for refusing the maternal role (Evanora and Theodora) or rewarded for placing primacy on family (Glinda and the China Girl).
As wonderfully put in the New York Times review of the film, Oz the Great and Powerful “has such backward ideas about female characters that it makes the 1939 Wizard of Oz look like a suffragist classic.” While the 1939 film was decidedly less feminist than the book on which it was based, it nevertheless was far more feminist friendly than this current iteration.
That a book published in 1900 and a film that came out in 1939 are each more feminist than a 2013 film is troubling. The NPR review agrees, but then claims that what this indicates is “that chivalry (or perhaps feminism) of the sort that Judy Garland could count on is not only merely dead, it’s really most sincerely dead.” Simplistic reading of chivalry aside, the suggestion that feminism is dead has perhaps never been more wrong than it is now. Sure, we still have our wicked witches to face (I am talking to you, Ann Coulter), but we also have a plethora of Dorothys and Ozmas and Jinjuras—not to mention L. Frank Baums.
It is particularly disappointing that films aimed at children and families continue to be not only un-feminist but devoutly anti-feminist, and they do so by drawing on the stereotypical witch figure of centuries ago—used, as Breuer puts it, to “frighten women back into domestic roles.”
Alas, just as the 1939 film reflected the economic realities of its time, turning Baum’s story into a call for women to return to the home (as in, “There’s no place like home”), so too does this 2013 version speak to the current economic crisis. Times of economic downturn are predictably accompanied by sexist backlash—a sort of knee-jerk “Let’s blame it on the women that steal our jobs, refuse to do their duties (mothering, cleaning, etc.) and threaten the stability of family, of church, of the very nation.” Currently, this backlash is evident on many fronts–from the attacks against women’s reproductive freedoms, to the vitriol aimed at women who dare seek independence or even the right to report rape, to the hyperfocus on romance, sexuality and appearance as the only things that truly matter to women.
The message of the original book was that possibilities for a liberated world of tolerance and female equality was not merely a dream but a real place we could move to if we only had the courage (and the heart and the brain). The message of the 1939 film was that women can have some power, but home and family was still the best place for them (and liberation was merely a dream caused by a bad bump on the head). The message of Oz the Great and Powerful is that only men can save women and only men can save Oz; in other words, what we need to save us from falling off the economic cliff is not Dorothy, not Glinda, not the China Girl, but a gold-digging con man who is adept at smoke-and-mirrors politics but has about as much substance or real conviction as, well, many of our current world leaders. These frauds are apparently still better than any woman though—be she good, wicked, or made of porcelain.
Illustration of Dorothy and Toto by W.W. Denslow, from Wikimedia Commons
Image of 1939 film from Flickr user Jason Weinberger, under license from Creative Commons


Natalie Wilson, PhD is a literature and women’s studies scholar, blogger, and author. She teaches at Cal State San Marcos and specializes in areas of gender studies, feminism, feminist theory, girl studies, militarism, body studies, boy culture and masculinity, contemporary literature, and popular culture. She is author of the blogs Professor, what if …? and Seduced by Twilight. She is a proud feminist mom of two feminist kids (one daughter, one son) and is an admitted pop-culture junkie. Her favorite food is chocolate.

The Oz Series & The Power of Women

Oz: The Great and Powerful Poster (Source: firstshowing.net)

Today, I’m going to rant about a film that hasn’t even come out yet. Most of you are probably aware that a prequel to The Wizard of Oz entitled Oz The Great and Powerful will be coming out this spring. James Franco has reunited with the original Spider-Man trilogy’s director Sam Raimi to play Oscar Diggs, the future Wizard of Oz. Those who have seen the 1939 film (and I’d wager just about everyone has) know that The Wizard is a fraud who has been flim-flamming the residents of Oz with illusions, pyrotechnics and some serious fast-talking.
Now, the trailer is beautiful. I thought it was really clever how the journey from Kansas to Oz gradually transitioned from black & white fullscreen to full colour widescreen. (Though if this is a prequel to the 1939 canon that’s a continuity error – The Wizard is from Nebraska, not Kansas) Danny Elfman is likely to deliver a good score. The cast is excellent too – the three Witches are played by Rachel Weisz, Mila Kunis and Michelle Williams, and James Franco amuses me. It’s nice to see him playing something besides the stoner James Dean bit he’s been doing since his Freaks & Geeks days (not counting 127 Hours). The film’s visuals are beautiful, and quite obviously inspired by Tim Burton’s Alice In Wonderland, which looked great…but was a shitty film.
I’m probably going to see Oz The Great and Powerful since I love fantasy movies and have loved the Oz series all my life…but I’m pissed. And all it took was one line in the trailer:
“Are you the great man we’ve been waiting for?” 
Glinda of Oz Novel Cover (Source: Wikipedia)
The Oz series, at least while still written by L. Frank Baum, has always been partly about the power and strength of women. Most significantly, Dorothy Gale, Princess Ozma and the four Witches of the cardinal directions (Glinda especially) are the ones who solve all the problems (obviously not counting the evil ones) and wield all the power. Baum still balances the gender dynamics by having well-written male characters as well. There have been dozens of unofficial sequels (Baum himself wrote 14 Oz books altogether before he died), not even counting revisionist/alternate universe media like Wicked. This film appears to be based on an original story (not one of the novels) and inspired by the 1939 film, and I can tell. The Wicked Witch of the West’s green skin is a dead giveaway, as well as Glinda being blonde and the Witch of the North. In the original novels, the Witch of the West did not have green skin, and Glinda was the redheaded Witch of the South. The 1939 film combined the Witch of the North (who ultimately wasn’t a significant character in the books anyway) and Glinda into one character. Actually, Glinda’s being blonde in this adaptation is telling me that they’re borrowing more than a little bit from Wicked.
Dorothy, Ozma and Glinda serve significant leadership positions in Oz. Princess Ozma is the true hereditary ruler of Oz – her position having been usurped by The Wizard. Glinda is by far the most powerful sorceress in Oz, and both Dorothy and Ozma often defer to her wisdom. Dorothy, of course, is the plucky orphan outsider who combines resourcefulness and bravery. She and Ozma are extremely close best friends – so close, in fact, that many people have done a queer reading of their relationship. It is not just my interpretation of the series that makes it subtextually feminist, L. Frank Baum deliberately wrote it as such. He is the son-in-law of Matilda Gage, a prominent 19th century suffragette. Although the biographic adaptation of Baum’s life, The Dreamer of Oz, painted their relationship as strained and antagonistic (and even implied she was the inspiration for the Witch of the West), he actually deeply admired her for her feminist political beliefs and was directly involved in the women’s suffrage movement as an advocate. Nice attempt at trying to make Gage a Straw Feminist, huh? Dorothy also serves as a memorial to his niece who died in infancy; his wife Maud was so distraught at Dorothy’s death (as she’d always wanted a daughter) Baum named his book’s heroine after her – and it is quite easy to interpret Oz as a symbolic heaven.
Princess Ozma (Source: Wikipedia)
Despite Princess Ozma being one of the most important characters in the entire Oz series, I can only recall two adaptations that even acknowledge she exists (and I’ve seen so many Oz adaptations I can’t remember them all) – cult classic Return To Oz and the 80s anime TV series The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Return To Oz makes her a kind of damsel in distress imprisoned by Princess Mombi, but at least makes the strong friendship between Ozma and Dorothy very clear. The anime TV series has one of the more unusual interpretations of Ozma. As in the original novels, Ozma had been transformed by Mombi (who is a minor witch, not a princess) into a boy named Tip so that no one could ever recognize her. After Glinda reveals who she really is and transforms her back, Ozma remains distinctly tomboyish – suggesting that Ozma’s life as a boy was a lot more absolute than just a physical transformation.
Since Oz The Great and Powerful is a prequel, I doubt they’ll even mention Ozma (never mind Dorothy), especially since they’re apparently going to make Diggs a heroic protagonist. I can’t even put The Wizard’s narrative role into words – he’s not a hero as he’s a fraud and an usurper, but he’s not a villain as he is mostly benevolent. Anti-Villain? I dunno. I don’t want to start talking like a TV Tropes page. What the trailer has implied, however, is that the Witches are going to defer to his authority and apparently prophesied power. What kind of bullshit is that?
Kristen Chenoweth & Idina Menzel in Wicked (Source: last.fm)

If we had to get an Oz prequel adaptation, why did we get this instead of Wicked? Wicked has its flaws, but the musical version echoes the main themes of the original books by making it about a strong friendship between girls/women. What we’ve seemingly got here is a story where three incredibly powerful sorceresses are unable to solve Oz’s problems on their own, and are waiting for a man to save them. A man who is a fraud. Two of the Witches inevitably will become part of the problem – the brunettes in the dark clothing, of course, not the pretty blonde in the pastels. The trailer also suggests that at least one of the Witches (it looks like Mila Kunis) will have a romance with Diggs, cause of course we can’t have women in a story without at least one of them wanting to bang the hero.
I hope the trailer is just being deceptive for marketing purposes. I hope the story isn’t really about powerful women waiting for a man to save them. But I’m not optimistic. The 1939 version of The Wizard of Oz remains one of my favourite movies of all time, and it retains one of Baum’s feminist themes – the women had the power all along. But it’s really distressing me how much this upcoming film relies on the canon of the 1939 adaptation, and doesn’t seem to have considered L. Frank Baum’s novels at all. With fourteen Oz books written by him and dozens of other adaptations/sequels/whatevers out there taking advantage of the Oz series being public domain, why did we need yet another original Oz story? And why, why, why did we need one that heavily implies that three powerful sorceresses need an ordinary man to rescue them? As an Oz series fan…that’s a load of humbug.

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.

Damning ‘Ted’ with Faint Praise

Mark Wahlberg and Mila Kunis in Ted.
As I’ve written on Bitch Flicks before, I’m not a fan of Seth MacFarlane’s work. I must admit, when I selected his feature-film debut Ted for my in-flight entertainment during my long trip back to the States for Thanksgiving, I was expecting it to be a diverting “hate watch” that would give me fodder for an easy-to-write negative post for this site, something I could quickly crunch out in between turkey and pie without missing too much family time.
But, alas, I sort of enjoyed Ted. It made me laugh out loud over a dozen times, even though I was watching it through headphones surrounded by hundreds of strangers probably watching The Amazing Spider-Man, and even though every time I laugh at something Seth MacFarlane is responsible for I feel like a hypocrite at best, if not a morally reprehensible enemy of human decency and storytelling itself.
Then again, Ted proves that Seth MacFarlane is capable of presenting jokes within the confines of a meaningful narrative, and of deriving comedy from plot and character interaction instead of meaningless cutaways to pop cultural name-checks. This is a huge step forward for MacFarlane, finally putting him on par with, well, pretty much everyone who has ever told a story or a joke to any level of success, including your Uncle Morris at last night’s dinner when he regaled the family with the tale of how he almost got arrested during last year’s Black Friday.
Unfortunately, the story that Ted tells is an uninspired and sexist Apotovian tale of man-child John (Mark Wahlberg), whose failure to launch into adulthood threatens his relationship with a Good Woman (Mila Kunis). The “twist” is that John’s connections to his immature life of hedonism are represented by his relationship with his lifelong best friend and roommate, Ted (voiced by Seth MacFarlane), a plush teddy bear come to life from a childhood wish. [DO YOU GET IT? John can’t be an adult because of his relationship with a CHILDHOOD TOY.]
Perhaps I’m so enchanted by MacFarlane’s ability to stick to a narrative to begin with because I’m so tremendously BORED with the pedestrian sexism of his chosen narrative. The Man-Child’s struggle to adapt to the demands of his Mature and Responsible Woman who Improbably Tolerates Him is soooooo 2007. There is nothing more to say about the sexism of this trope. I’m falling asleep thinking about it.
Which leaves only semi-positive notes like, hey, that Mark Wahlberg sure is charming, and Mila Kunis really is doing all she can to redeem this crap role; and wow, this CGI is pretty great, at least on a 3-inch screen on an airplane seat back. It’s so astonishing to me that Ted is a competent film it becomes all too easy to dismiss its entirely expected and uninteresting sexism. So I won’t do that. Ted is sexist. But I’m still impressed and surprised that it isn’t entirely terrible.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Amber‘s Picks:

Question Time: Women & Screenplays via Wellywood Woman

Teen Beat! 8 Teen Film Versions of Classic Literature by Kelly Kawano via Word & Film

She’s Beautiful When She’s Angry by Mary Dore and Nancy Kennedy via Kickstarter

Leslie Knope’s sexuopolitical dreams are coming true by Chloe via Feministing

FFFF: Ellen Endorses “Bic for Her” Pens by Jarrah via Gender Focus

London Feminist Film Festival tickets now on sale! by Kyna Morgan via Her Film

Random Nerd Nostalgia: Wonder Woman for President by Aphra Behn via Shakesville

Stephanie‘s Picks:

Catching Up With Molly Ringwald by Shana Naomi Krochmal via Out

Portraying the Women Behind the Powerful Men by Hugh Hart via the LA Times

Mila Kunis Is Executive Producing a ’70s Period Drama About Feminism by Jamie Peck via Crushable

TV Show “Girls” Does More for Feminism Than Sex & the City Ever Did by Caroline Mortimer via Sabotage Times

Backlot Bitch: Flight Beyond Stereotypes by Monica Castillo via Bitch Magazine


Megan‘s Picks:

Martha Plimpton: Why Hollywood Activism Matters by Martha Plimpton via The Hollywood Reporter 

The 6 Best Moments for Women in the 2012 Election by Emma Gray via The Huffington Post

Skyfall Unquestioningly Belongs to Dame Judi Dench by Charlie Jane Anders via Jezebel 

Television Interview About Harassment in Gaming by Anita Sarkeesian via Feminist Frequency

Sexism in Hollywood: Where Are the Women in Argo? by Nico Lang via Women and Hollywood

The End of the Bond Girl and the Rise of the Bond Woman by Alyssa Rosenberg via Slate’s Double X

What have you been reading this week? Tell us in the comments!

Guest Writer Wednesday: Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan: Viewers’ and Critics’ Miss-steps in a Dance with a Female Protagonist

Black Swan (2010)

As Mila Kunis’s character descends upon Natalie Portman’s in the (dream) oral sex scene in Black Swan, a college-age young woman in the movie theater audibly whispers, “And this is why every guy in the theater is here.” 

Darren Aronofsky’s 2010 Black Swan is a film about repression, perfection, and letting go. 
It is a film about finding, torturing, losing, and gaining oneself through destruction, much like many postmodern films of the same genre (Fight Club, along with Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream and The Wrestler). 
But to too many in that theater and in theaters across the country, it is a sexy, crazy, girl movie about ballet. 
Even though most of the marketing of the film catered directly to the male gaze (focusing, of course, on that oral sex scene, which had nothing to do with sex in the context of the film), it is considered either a movie about a girl, or a movie for girls. Even in the sponsored post on Jezebel (which was heavily promoting the film through advertising), women were supposed to come see the film because of pretty ballet, and shocking scenes—psychological and sexual—all touted in a juvenile, sing-song manner: “Natalie violently masturbates face-down on a mattress under the gazes of two creepy stuffed bunnies. For real.” “Natalie makes out with Mila!” The advertisers seemed desperate to sell a different film to audiences. Females would surely flock to theaters to see ballet, so how could it be marketed toward men (and as seen here, women)? Frivolous lesbian sex. Because certainly men wouldn’t want to see a film about a ballerina (note that these marketing concerns certainly weren’t an issue for The Wrestler). 
The IMDB page describes Black Swan as “A thriller that zeros in on the relationship between a veteran ballet dancer and a rival.” 
But it’s not. Nina’s (Portman) rival, Lily (Kunis), has almost nothing to do with the central plot and theme of this film. However, the allure of feminine cattiness, jealousy, and competitiveness is much easier to digest than the idea that a film could focus on universal human conflicts with a female protagonist. 
Aronofksy’s 2008 film The Wrestler is described on IMDB as follows: “A faded professional wrestler must retire, but finds his quest for a new life outside the ring a dispiriting struggle. “ 
Personal conflict, inner-struggle, the gender-neutral “quest.” 
In an interview that touched upon gender issues in Black Swan, Aronofsky said, “… to me, if you paint a human character with real emotions and really empathize with them, it doesn’t matter if it’s a 50-something aging wrestler, or a 20-something ambitious dancer, they’re just people.” How unfortunate that we must hear that explanation from a director, instead of simply understanding it. 
Lest the blame of this feminine vs. universal (masculine) protagonist issue be placed solely upon the marketing and audience, the feminist lens must also be properly focused. In Debra Cash’s “Swanday Bloody Swanday: Darren Aronofsky’s Sadistic, Misogynistic New Film,” she refers to the film as a “textbook demonstration of what academics refer to as the male gaze… Aronofsky’s fable portrays female powerlessness on every level—youth, friendship, collegiality, retirement, motherhood.” And that in itself is misogynistic? Should we not portray powerlessness because we want to be powerful? Had Aronofsky been celebrating powerlessness, maybe that argument would hold true, but he certainly was not. Showing how destructive powerlessness is should be viewed as a feminist action. 
Many feminist film reviewers also lambasted the misogyny of the ballet’s artistic director, Thomas (played by Vincent Cassel), even though his character’s inherent sexism (referring to his principle dancer as his “Little Princess,” for example) is essential to the themes of repression and being able to break free from said repression. Jill Dolan, at The Feminist Spectator, says that “As her [Nina’s] relationship with Thomas gets more and more entwined, she begins to suffer from a kind of Stockholm Syndrome, idealizing and even identifying with Thomas and his mercurial cruelty.” This is begging the question that Nina is the victim–would we ever assume a grown man in a similar role was the victim? Perhaps we’d glance at the notion, but never give him the simple, passive role of “victim.” Relegating Nina to the role of the victim belittles and negates the larger focus of the film. 
While Thomas’s advice to Nina to touch herself is uncomfortable, it is effective, not purely sexist, in trying to force her to find her Black Swan. What better way to discuss this clearly feminist idea—the female orgasm and the difficulty to attain it due to outside and inside pressures—than in the context of the dichotomy of the White and Black Swans? When she finally does achieve orgasm during the aforementioned dream sequence, it’s clear she can do so only when she has lost herself enough, and lost herself to a point where she can blame someone else for her destruction, that she can let herself (and her Black Swan) free. 
While this literal and figurative climax also serves as the beginning of her perfection and destruction, we can see that the destructive nature of this epiphany relies on the fact that she has not achieved freedom by herself. Dolan presents this scene as if it is a lesbian sex scene, as does Cash. In doing so, these feminist commentators take away the importance of the scene by assuming it’s simply for the male gaze, when in fact it is all about Nina overcoming, or attempting to overcome, the passive social and sexual world that she inhabits, while still striving for perfection. 
This leaves the feminist viewer to wonder what makes a film feminist? Must sexism lose and the oppressed woman break free and live happily ever after? Instead, perhaps the truly feminist film is one that makes the female protagonist represent humanity, not just womanhood. Dolan ends her article with the line: “That’s a message that’s not good for the girls.” This further proves the idea that the message of success through self-destruction cannot be gender-neutral with a female protagonist. 
Aviva Dove-Viebahn, in her Ms. Magazine Blog review “Sex, Lies and Ballet,” acknowledges Aronofsky’s “fascination with the intense humanity and obsessive desires of his characters” in a refreshingly comprehensive review. Dove-Viebahn clearly sees what the others miss—that we as viewers are supposed to be questioning and compelled by Aronofksy’s narrative. 
In the Variety article “Stalking the perfect ending,” Mark Heyman (one of the writers of the film, along with John McLaughlin and Andres Heinz) said about the film’s end: “We wanted it to have some kind of emotional weight and significance and somehow be satisfying, even though it’s tragic… so that it felt like she had achieved something even as she had destroyed herself.” It seems that the writers and the director have a clear understanding of the purpose of the film, and the complicated, yet simple, themes. Why did so many audiences and critics miss the point? 
In Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable, he explores probability and the human urge to predict in his Black Swan Theory (typically used to explain world and financial events). He derives the title of the book and theory with the story of the white swan in the “old world”—people had only ever seen white swans, so they assumed all swans were white. The sighting of a black swan was a complete surprise. He says, “It illustrates a severe limitation in our learning from observations or experiences and the fragility of our knowledge. One single observation can invalidate a general statement derived from millennia of confirmatory sightings of millions of white swans.” The male protagonist is the white swan—the millions of white swans. Aronofsky’s Black Swan—the female protagonist—has shocked the people in our “old” world. We don’t know what to do with it exactly, and are unclear of its purpose. 
Taleb goes on to describe the three attributes of the Black Swan: “it is an outlier, as it lies outside the realm of regular expectations,” “it carries an extreme impact,” and “in spite of its outlier status, human nature makes us concoct explanations for its occurrence after the fact, making it explainable and predictable.” The audiences who quickly categorize Black Swan as a movie for/about women, or the critics who lambast its misogyny, are unable to otherwise grapple with the outlier of a female protagonist who can show us ourselves—male and female. 
Unfortunately, we are still entrenched in a culture where men’s stories are universal stories of humanity, and women’s stories are women’s stories. Until we move past that, and realize that just as we don’t have to be aging professional wrestlers to understand the humanity and struggle of The Wrestler’s protagonist, nor do we have to be young female ballerinas to see Nina as a character that speaks to us in Black Swan, we will continue to be in gendered places in the movie theater, where male protagonists are the norm, and female protagonists are only noteworthy if they are being gone down on.

Leigh Kolb is an English and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri, and has an MFA in creative nonfiction writing. She lives on a small farm with her husband, dogs, chickens, and garden, and makes a terrible dinner party guest because all she wants to talk about is feminism and reproductive rights.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Hermione Granger: The Heroine Women Have Been Waiting For from Huffington Post

Spotlight on the Samsung Women’s International Film Festival from Gender Across Borders

Best Ever Hindi Films by Women Directors from Rediff Movies

Mila Kunis Is SO HORRIBLE! (This, too, is sarcasm.) from Shakesville

2011 Kids’ Movie Titles Feature 11 Male Stars from Reel Girl

Violence Against Women in Peru, and the Films of Claudia Llosa from Bad Reputation

Murder, She Blogged: Mrs. Columbo from Bitch Magazine

Tell Got Milk to End Its Sexist “PMS” Ad Campaign from Change.org 

Leave your links in the comments!

Poster Analysis: Summer Movie Preview

We all know that summer is the worst season for movies. It’s when the heat melts all of our feeble brains into mush and we’re only capable of grunting approval at explosions, special effects, scantily clad women, and the most simplistic plots, while sitting in icily air-conditioned theatres and shoveling $7 bags of popcorn into our face holes. Here’s a sampling of films opening in wide release that we have to look forward to, now that summer has officially begun.

 
 
 
  
In these posters I see a “maneater,” a teacher who is bad at her job, a “dirty girl,” some arm candy, black maids, almost up a Disney princess’ dress, a scooter passenger, and an invitation to ,ahem, a hole. The Debt offers the only poster with not one, but two women showing agency. One Day might be interesting, as we see Anne Hathaway’s pleasured expression while kissing a man. The Help could possibly be progressive, since it at least shows the black women in the more active, central position. Maybe.
In these posters I also see a bunch of white dudes who win battles: Harry Potter, Conan, Captain America, and that guy from Transformers. I see male-driven comedies (Horrible Bosses, 30 Minutes or Less, Change Up). I see one “idiot,” although it seems “our” in the title might refer to women. I see machines. And those damn dirty apes are back.
As we’ve pointed out in other Poster Analysis pieces (often in the comments), the way a film is marketed can have very little to do with the actual content of the film. But by choosing to market films in a way that presents women as passive or as objects for male admiration, or that excludes them completely, production companies tend to reveal internal biases and expectations, and who their target audience actually is.
What do you think of this year’s crop of summer movie posters? (I am actually happy to see the Transformers babe fully clothed.) Did I leave out any movies on your radar? Finally, what movies do you plan to see in the theatre this summer?

Review in Conversation: Black Swan

Sometimes a movie needs more than a review–it needs a discussion. See our previous Reviews in Conversation here and here.

Nina is cracking…

Amber’s Take:
There’s a lot to say about Black Swan, and the more I think about it, the fewer definitive, and perhaps positive things I have to say. Before getting too ahead of myself, though, I must say that the performances–particularly Natalie Portman’s–were amazing, the dance sequences were compelling and seemed very well done, and the film was, overall, visually stunning. This is the most intensely visceral film I’ve seen in some time, and simply remembering certain moments still causes me to cringe. I loved the image of the goose flesh appearing on Nina Sayers’ (Portman’s) skin, as she began to physically embody her role as the Swan Queen, and the nod to Cronenberg’s The Fly when thick, black feathers began to sprout from Nina’s skin (as the hairs sprouted from Jeff Goldblum’s Seth Brundle during his physical transformation into, well, a fly).

On a literal level, the film seems to be about the transformation of an artist–in this case, a dancer–into a role. It also is, very specifically, about the physical rigor of ballet, and the lengths an artist will go to in perfecting her performance. Ballet is a physically grueling art form that seems diametrically at odds with the female body. Like gymnasts, from what I understand, a ballet dancer must fight against a mature woman’s body, maintain an impossibly thin-yet-strong physique, and endure at times severe physical pain. On a more metaphoric level, this is what society expects all women to endure, though I don’t think we can read the white swan/black swan as a direct metaphor of the virgin/whore dichotomy or expectation for women in our culture. There are several other things going on in the film, one of the most problematic being (s)mother love.

What on Earth is Barbara Hershey’s character doing in this film? In a near-deranged, over-the-top role, we see a woman who couldn’t make it out of the corps during her own ballet career, and who blames her daughter for the unhappy end to that career. Erica Sayers infantalizes her daughter, dominates her life, pummels her with guilt for under-appreciating her (the cake scene, anyone?), and generally serves as the movie’s biggest villain–worse than an artistic director who sexually assaults and torments Nina. Oh, that’s nothing compared to Mommy Dearest. So what do we make of Nina’s mother–and why was she even in this movie?

Stephanie’s Take:
While I share some of your concerns with (s)mother love, and Barbara Hershey’s character in general, I really enjoyed the film. So before I respond to some of the issues you mention, let me say what I liked so much about Black Swan:

First, a fairly obvious but no less interesting way to read the film is as an indictment of prescribed femininity.  Nina’s entire existence is wrapped up in an attempt to be perfect, whether it’s striving to be the perfect ballerina or the perfect daughter. We see what her breakfast looks like, grapefruit and a hardboiled egg (if I remember correctly), and as you mention, the struggle to maintain a child’s body resonates throughout. While that may be particularly important for careers in ballet and gymnastics, it’s also our society’s ideal body type for all women, so I very much like that Black Swan delves into (however metaphorically) the potential consequences of restrictive and unattainable “perfection” in women. 

When Nina can’t live up to the casting director’s Perfect Ballerina or her mother’s Perfect Daughter, she basically loses her shit. Thomas (the casting director, played by Vincent Cassel) wants her to embrace her sexuality, to seduce the audience with it (channeling the Black Swan). Erica (her mother) wants her to remain childlike and innocent (channeling the White Swan), and both Thomas and Erica represent the double-edged sword that all women face: be sexy, but not slutty; be sweet, but not a total prude. In the words of Usher, “We want a lady in the street but a freak in the bed.”) 

When Nina can’t fulfill both these roles simultaneously, as much as she tries, the film shows us her breakdown: her body betrays her in literal ways, with bleeding toes and scratch marks that suggest self-mutilation (another hallmark characteristic of young women struggling to cope with similar stress); and her body betrays her in ways that suggest hallucinations: pulling “feathers” from her flesh, or ripping off her cuticles, only to discover moments later that her hand is fine. I found that part of the film, the hallucinatory transformation into the Black Swan, super interesting because it seems to happen to her accidentally—as she experiences the transformation, she doesn’t understand what’s happening, and it frightens her. 

In fact, I would argue that her body isn’t her own at any time during the film. Thomas wants to control her body in a sexual way, often groping her and kissing her against her will. And when Nina attempts to explore her sexuality, to take ownership of it through masturbation, she suddenly realizes her mother is in the room (to the gasps and laughter of audiences nationwide), and she buries herself under her covers like a child. Erica constantly explores Nina’s body either by looking at her or physically touching her, often insisting that she remove her clothes—creating an inappropriateness in their relationship that I don’t quite know what to do with. 

Regardless, I like that Black Swan implies that these ideals for women can’t actually exist without women destroying themselves in the process of attaining them. We live in a society where women’s bodies exist as pleasure-objects for men, as dismembered parts to sell products, as images to be dissected, airbrushed, made fun of, all under a government that continues to chip away at women’s rights to bodily autonomy. In that kind of environment, when does a woman’s body ever feel entirely her own? Black Swan sets up that metaphor quite well, asking the viewer to experience Nina’s struggle to live up to society’s ridiculous expectations for women through several cringe-worthy moments.

That rocks. But I wonder if that effort gets trumped by some of the more objectifying scenes, like the “lesbian sex scene” and the masturbation scene. Is it possible to comment on society’s expectations of women and beauty without also objectifying women in the process? Does Aronofsky linger a little too long at times? And, in response to your second paragraph, why can’t we read the Black Swan/White Swan as a direct metaphor for the virgin/whore dichotomy?  (Oh, and yeah, I’ll throw it back to you—what the hell is happening with Nina and her mom?)

Amber’s Take:
You make a lovely and convincing reading of the film as an exploration of the impossibility of society’s contemporary take on womanhood. I think my resistance to this reading—or, more specifically, my dissatisfaction of this being the ultimate reading—has everything to do with Erica Sayers, though neither of us is certain how to exactly read her character. More on that in a moment (ha ha). Though meaning doesn’t end (or begin, necessarily) with a director’s intention, I also think this reading gives Aronofsky too much credit; in other words, I don’t know that the film is that good—that altrustic, that interested in women’s experience—or that cohesive.

Aronofsky has a clear interest in the limits of the human body. While watching Black Swan, I thought about his previous movie, The Wrestler, and the ways in which that solitary person pushes his body to limits most us of (those of us who aren’t professional wrestlers or ballerinas) find absurd and painful to even see. We could extend our conversation indefinitely by bringing in other movies as objects of comparison (The Red Shoes), but I do see some structural similarities between Black Swan and The Wrestler that warrant at least a cursory comparison–and I’m sure others have done this comparative work in reviews around the web.

An important question to ask when we’re trying to figure out Black Swan is this: How do we see Nina Sayers at the end of the film? Is she a victim of her society/mother/creative director? Or is she victorious, in that she conquered the perceived limits of her body to achieve her own stated goal: to be perfect in her Swan Lake performance. (Did we see the protagonist of The Wrestler as victorious or defeated in his final leap?) Nina masters her performance, nailing the Black Swan to the point she imagines her arms transforming into wings. This was the most thrilling sequence in the film—her performance was beautiful, and much more impressive than any of the other dance sequences. Is the Black Swan a villain? In the ballet, yes, and the White Swan is the tragic heroine. Films generally tend to do a better job of making the villain more compelling than the hero, but if both roles are (metaphoric) unattainable goals, how do we read those final moments?

It’s not that I disagree with your reading—I really want that to be what the movie is ultimately about, but there are too many half-baked ideas competing with each other to allow me to say Okay, it’s about X. And, frankly, there’s an awful lot of pleasure to be had by gazing at tormented bodies in the film for me to wholly believe its feminist message. Before Nina gets the lead role in Swan Lake she looks hopefully at a woman walking toward her at a distance, and sees herself in the face of a stranger. So, she’s looking for her a reflection of herself, evidence of her own existence in other people. I don’t think this is a statement about a woman’s unstable identity; I think it’s what an artistic performer does. And possibly a person grappling with mental illness. What about Lily (Mila Kunis)? Her cheeseburger, ecstasy, and alcohol-fueled night with Nina, leading to empowered club dancing (sarcasm), random dude-kissing, and imagined sexy lesbian action between the two, does…what, exactly? Neither the skeezy artistic director’s advice (masturbate!) nor San Francisco Lily’s trite transgressions work to sexually liberate Nina…or do they? At least they bring her into active conflict with her mother.

Now. Nina lives with a mother who is basically a lunatic. I mean, let’s just say it: Nina’s mother is fucking nuts. Why (in the world of the film) does Nina need to have a mother who is fucking nuts? Couldn’t she have been moderately nuts, like most of us, with contradictions, who acts in moderately selfish ways which can moderately mess up a daughter? That would’ve allowed the themes we’ve discussed to be played out just as intricately and interestingly. How does this character fit into the movie? Taken literally, Nina’s mother is at fault for her child’s problems. As mothers tend to be in films made by men, and as psychiatrists believed in the 1960s (I’m thinking of the concept of the schizophrenogenic mother here–the idea that an oppressive mother could actually cause schizophrenia in her children). While we might be seeing a version of Erica Sayers from Nina’s untrustworthy perspective, what good is it—even if it’s not an accurate representation—for Nina to see her mother this way? Taken metaphorically…what? There’s no feminist reading I can discern in a film that I want to be feminist.

Stephanie’s Take:
I completely agree that it might not be useful, or even possible in a film as complicated as Black Swan, to come up with a definitive reading. But I still believe so much is at stake with regards to women and identity and the fluidity of that identity, in a culture that forces women to possess multiple, often contradictory identities.  Maybe I’m giving Aronofsky too much credit, but I disagree with your suggestion that Nina’s literal reflections aren’t a statement about a woman’s unstable identity. 

Yes, this film comments plenty on the artist and how performance can impact an artist’s life, how the artist must take on certain traits to enhance her performance, and how that act might impact her life when she isn’t on stage. However, given the fact that we’re all “performing” our identities to an extent (like the prescribed gender roles we’re taught from birth to perform), it’s worth looking at how Nina, a character whose identity seems so wrapped up in the expectations of those around her, copes—or doesn’t cope—with the pressures of womanhood and what’s required of that particular role.

It’s impossible not to notice Nina’s reflection everywhere. She sees herself reflected in mirrors as she dances, or when she’s reading the word “whore” on the bathroom mirror of the dance studio, or when she sees her face in the subway car windows. And as you mentioned, she sees her face superimposed on the faces of strangers in public—and even in the mirror at her own house, where she and Lily’s faces are superimposed. 

It happens again during the sex scene; Lily’s face becomes Nina’s own face at one point, and we can hear Lily creepily whispering the words of Nina’s mother, “my sweet girl” over and over. Since we learn later that this sex scene is most likely Nina’s hallucination (and I think there’s enough evidence to even make the argument that Lily’s entire existence is a hallucination), it’s useful in interpreting the film to think about why Nina sees Lily, hears her mother’s words, and even sees her own image during a sex scene.

All this swapping of voices and faces (identities, if you will, haha) lead me to read all these people, Erica, Beth (Winona Ryder), and Lily as facets and projections of Nina’s identity. Beth, Thomas’s first “little princess,” is the aging ballerina who gets replaced by Nina, the younger ballerina. Erica, her mother, is the ballerina who slept with her director, got pregnant, and had to end her dancing career as a result. And Lily is the ballerina who embodies everything Nina tries so desperately to find within herself. She’s a carefree, sexual woman who repeatedly threatens Nina’s role in the ballet. Both when Nina is late to rehearsal and when Nina is late to the show’s opening—Lily stands in the background, threatening to take Nina’s place.

Keeping that in mind, it’s interesting that Nina “murders” Lily; on one hand, Nina seeks to absorb Lily’s empowerment, but on the other, the only way she can ultimately accomplish that is by killing it. Since murder is a pretty empowered act, I guess I get that. In fact, I think I liked it. Because Nina basically says Fuck You to the idea that Lily, who represents Nina’s unattainable sexual identity, is separate from herself, her whole self. In that moment, Nina transforms fully into The Black Swan, allowing Lily’s metaphoric death to push Nina to do what she previously thought herself incapable of accomplishing.

You argue that the alcohol-fueled, “imagined sexy lesbian action between the two” does nothing to really sexually liberate Nina. I struggled with this scene in the film probably more than any other scene because it feels exploitative and objectifying in the same way most Hollywood faux-lesbian sex scenes do. But I also believe it’s important to pay attention to all the stuff I mentioned previously. There’s tons of identity-shifting in this scene. Nina’s eventual sexual liberation (if we equate her successful transformation into the Black Swan with sexual liberation) begins here; when identities become interchangeable in this scene, we get the first images of the gooseflesh appearing on Nina’s skin. Something empowering seems to be happening. Whether it’s actual sexual liberation or the first signs of Nina embracing all these facets of herself (Beth, Erica, Lily), it complicates things. But what does it mean?

Well! I’ll go back to my original argument: Black Swan implies that these ideals for women can’t actually exist without women destroying themselves in the process of attaining them. How many identities can we effectively perform before we forget entirely who we are? Women struggle with that in a way that men never will. More often than not, it’s women who have to give up careers for children (Erica). They get pushed out of their professions when they get older (Beth). They’re expected to balance innocence with sexuality and to know when (and when not to) express them (Nina/Lily). And the attempt to balance, express, and suppress these prescribed roles often doesn’t work without having a detrimental impact on women individually and as a whole.

Interestingly, Nina and Lily both “die” in the end. So women in this film end up visibly crazy, hospitalized, or dead. In a less complex film, that would seriously piss me off. But the death and/or disappearance and/or insanity of these women make a larger point: if they’re all separate facets of Nina’s own personality and identity, which I believe they are, it’s necessary to watch each separate character struggle—it reinforces the idea that these performed identities aren’t possible without sacrificing one’s entire self.

You asked: If the Black Swan/White Swan “roles are (metaphoric) unattainable goals, how do we read those final moments?” Good question. It fascinates me most of all that Nina claims, after the White Swan’s suicide, that her performance was perfect. But, it wasn’t. She fell down in the middle of the damn ballet. To a gasping and appalled  audience (not to mention, director). If her “I was perfect” claim applies only to the ballet, then she’s referring only to her performance as the Black Swan; after all, it’s the Black Swan whose dance partner whispers “wow” as she’s walking off stage; it’s the Black Swan whose audience gives her a standing ovation; it’s the Black Swan whose director beams with pride when she leaves the stage.

So yeah, I see Nina as a victim at the end of the film. Because she wasn’t perfect; she was never perfect. The conquering of her role as the Black Swan comes at a great sacrifice to her role as the White Swan (her fall during the ballet and her metaphoric death at the end of it).  The two identities can’t coexist perfectly, as much as she wants them to. In the end, she still hasn’t attained the superhuman ability to perform competing identities for a critical audience. Sure, the audience may have loved Nina’s empowered, sexualized Black Swan, clearly enough to forgive the earlier screw up as the White Swan, but that isn’t surprising if you read the audience as a metaphor for society (why not?), a society that loves more than anything to be seduced by its women.

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We still have more to say! Let the conversation continue in the comments section, and leave links to reviews you’ve written or read.