Representations of trans women still remain few and far between in film and on television. Representations of trans women performed by actual trans women are even more rare. (‘Orange is the New Black’ and ‘Sense8’ are the most recent, popular exceptions to that rule, and, interestingly, both are series productions created by Netflix.)
Our theme week for November 2015 will be Depictions of Trans Women.
Representations of trans women still remain few and far between in film and on television. Representations of trans women performed by actual trans women are even more rare. (Orange is the New Black and Sense8 are the most recent, popular exceptions to that rule, and, interestingly, both are series productions created by Netflix.) Much like white actors dressing up in blackface or redface to interpret the experience of Black and Native characters, trans representation by non-trans actresses takes away the authenticity of the interpretation, no matter how sympathetic the storyline may be.
This is why we often see trans women as the punchline of a joke (Terror Firmer, Twin Peaks, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective) or the source of horror and revulsion (Sleepaway Camp, The Crying Game, The Silence of the Lambs). In more serious dramas, male actors have garnered critical praise for their depictions of trans women (Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor in The Crying Game and hotly contended Academy Award win for Best Supporting Actor in Dallas Buyers Club). This persistence in and even acclaim for insisting on interpreting the experience of trans women for trans women is a kind of violence and erasure in its own right.
Why aren’t trans women given the opportunity to represent themselves? Which interpretations of trans women have merit? What do these interpretations say about the experiences of trans women and trans identity? What do interpretations of trans women say about our society’s interplay with trans identity? Are representations of trans women getting better?
Feel free to use the examples below to inspire your writing on this subject, or choose your own source material.
We’d like to avoid as much overlap as possible for this theme, so get your proposals in early if you know which film you’d like to write about. We accept both original pieces and cross-posts, and we respond to queries within a week.
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The net effect, woven throughout the series, is a sex positivity that both embraces differentiation and recognizes the universal experiences that can work to close gaps of gender, orientation, and race that routinely stymie the discourse.
This guest post by Emma Houxbois appears as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.
Sex positivity, as a movement and concept in general, is open to a great deal of interpretation and criticism because of the multitude of forms that it’s taken over the years. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the heated debates that formed what are alternately described as “the feminist sex wars” and “lesbian sex wars” in establishing where the boundaries between legitimate self expression and exploitation lie in areas like commercial pornography and BDSM lie.
Discussions of power, privilege, and control typically remain central to the topic of sex positivity, and they’re vitally important when considering film in particular, a medium where female expressions of desire are more often than not conceived of and executed by men. While these discussions are vital, they can also stand to be expanded into what sex positivity can look like when it moves beyond the idea of liberating self-expression to recognizing and understanding other people’s desires.
Prior to the debut of Sense 8, Lana and Andy Wachowski were not typically considered to be filmmakers with a particularly sex positive agenda, but the roots of their broad and inclusive conceptions of sexuality in their Netflix series (co-created with J. Michael Straczynski) go all the way back to their debut Bound, a heist flick that starred Gina Gershon and Jennifer Tilly as lovers. At the time, the Wachowskis reached out to erotica writer and famed proponent of sex positive femininity Susie Bright to offer her a cameo in the film as thanks for her work’s influence in creating the film. Bright, who fell in love with the script, countered with a readily accepted offer to be their consultant on film and provide direction on how to film the sex scenes between Gershon and Tilly.
It’s an under-discussed part of the Wachowskis’ career that Bound, through arrangements made by Bright, had its debut at the San Francisco Gay and Lesbian Film Festival at the Castro theater, establishing a queer context to their work years before Lana came out as transgender. However it’s easy to see a recapturing of the spirit of their collaboration with Bright in Sense8, as they expand from the lesbian romance of Bound to expand into a multitude of simultaneous expressions of sexuality.
Key to much of the conversation around the series and its depiction of sex is how central, and explicit, the relationship between Nomi, a trans woman, (played by Jamie Clayton) and her girlfriend Amanita (played by Freema Agyeman) is. In and of itself it’s a tremendous victory for trans representation that scores the unheard of trifecta of a trans woman character being played by an actual trans actress, recognizes that trans women experience same gender desire, and doesn’t construct her sexuality around deception of any kind. The Wachowskis clearly communicate their triumph in this with the close up shot of a well-lubricated rainbow dildo dropping to the floor at the close of their first sex scene together, but Sense8 sets out to accomplish far more than just a sex toy mic drop.
In addition to Nomi and Amanita’s relationship, the series develops the romance between closeted Mexican actor Lito Rodriguez (played by Miguel Angel Silvestre) who is among the seven other characters Nomi shares an empathic bond with, and his boyfriend Hernando, as well as blossoming heterosexual romances between other members of the group. Nomi and Lito’s relationships are given the bulk of the development as the series progresses, but the Wachowskis use that focus as an opportunity to build a conception of sex that celebrates differentiation while also tapping into the universal aspects of sex and intimacy that everyone experiences regardless of gender or orientation.
This is primarily and most noticeably achieved in a sequence in the sixth episode where enough of the emotional energy of the sensates is focused on sex to trigger a full blown orgy between several of them, including Nomi, Lito, and two of the straight male characters. The focus and direction of the sequence, which was described by Silvestre as Lana Wachowski yelling directions from the sideline, which sounds much like what Bright believed her role in Bound’s production would be interpreted as. (“I think they imagined that meant I stood over Gina and Jennifer with a riding crop, snapping, “Deeper , Harder, A Little to the Left!”) But the scene does also communicate the same language and visuals that Bright intended for Bound:
“There were two main ideas on my mind. One, unlike most Hollywood lesbian scenarios, this movie shouldn’t insinuate oral sex– that’s not the kind of characters we were looking at. BOUND is about getting inside someone very fast, trusting them with everything-these women had to be fucking each other. Penetration was the act we wanted to imply. Yet obviously we weren’t going to get away with gynecological or hardcore shots in a movie that was headed for America’s shopping malls.”
“My idea, stolen from the ‘Kathy’ footage, was that we show a woman’s legs, straining and squeezing, and that we see that her lover’s forearm between her thighs. We dwell on that arm for a moment, moving back and forth in a fucking rhythm, looking sure, steady and unrelenting. Then, instead of following her arm all the way up to her lover’s pussy, we would cut to her stomach, fluttering like a little butterfly in that spasm we all recognize as orgasm. I loved the idea of eroticizing a woman’s belly like that. A lot of men making sex movies try to show a woman’s sexual pleasure by focusing the lens on her cleavage. Maybe that’s what they’re looking at, but hey, there’s a lot more going on!
“The other key idea was to eroticize the women’s hands whenever they were flirting or making love with each other. ‘A lesbian’s hands are her cock, they’re the hard-on of the movie, that’s what you want to follow,’ I said, like some veteran pornographer. When I see Corky’s hands on screen, I want to imagine how they would feel inside me. They’re the metaphorical substitute for the genital shots that you won’t be showing.”
Eroticizing the hands is the technique most keenly felt that follows through from Bound, but toward a somewhat different purpose in Sense8. Bright was looking for a way to get the idea of the kind of sex she imagined being most relevant to the plot and character beats of Bound across without being able to use explicit detail. She wanted to communicate genuine queer female desire to an audience who had never seen it presented in a manner equal to the depiction of straight sex in mainstream film. In Sense8, the first thing that focusing on eroticizing hands and grasping does is communicate the universality of desire across characters who identify as gay, lesbian, and straight. It depicts a physical element of sex that everyone, no matter their gender or orientation, can easily grasp and identify with. What it also does, just as Bright sought to evoke penetration in the sex scenes as part of the overall themes of Bound, is communicate how the individual sensates have been grasping toward each other in the series, trying to reach an understanding of their circumstances and who each other are.
Differentiation cannot be overlooked as being a major component of how the series presents and celebrates sexuality, despite the centrality of the “orgy” sequence that communicates a universality to human desire. Immediately following that sequence is a conversation in which Nomi tries to make sense of why she shares an empathic bond with the others, stating that it would seem more logical to her if the others were closer and not further from her identity and experiences. The response from Amanita’s mother is that she teaches the importance of differentiation through her classes on evolution. The implicit idea is that if differentiation is a key catalyst in biological evolution, it cannot be overlooked when considering the evolution of attitudes around sex that include queer and trans experiences.
Elsewhere in the series we see the critical importance of differentiation outside of sex, most notably as Lito and Wolfgang trade places in each others’ lives at the climax of their individual storylines. Lito, having pushed the situation with his blackmailer as far as he can by acting, falls back on Wolfgang to literally finish the fight. Then Wolfgang, having reached the limits of his skills as a thief and fighter in dealing with his rival, allows Lito to step forward and ply his trade as an actor. Each facet of the characters’ lives and experiences are as vital to the others’ towards their shared survival whether it be Sun’s martial arts skills, Capheus’ driving abilities, Lito’s acting skills, or Nomi’s computer wizardry.
The net effect, woven throughout the series, is a sex positivity that both embraces differentiation and recognizes the universal experiences that can work to close gaps of gender, orientation, and race that routinely stymie the discourse.
Emma Houxbois is a fiercely queer trans woman whose natural habitat is the Pacific Northwest. She is currently the Comics Editor for The Rainbow Hub and co-host of Fantheon, a weekly comics podcast.
Besides occasional sex jokes, ‘Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries’ features episodes about vibrators, abortion, and women’s rights. It also highlights a wealth of one-night stands, and while the men are attractive, the camera glances over the bodies of Miss Fisher’s lovers as lovingly as it does her gorgeous outfits. It is, in an odd way, the perfect combination of the male and female gaze.
This guest post by Emma Thomas appears as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.
“My sin’s are too many and varied to repent. And frankly, I intend to continue sinning.” – Miss Phryne Fisher
Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysterieshas been a popular show in Australia for years, and is based on a long-lasting series of books by Australian author Kerry Greenwood.
But, what did it take for American viewers to tune in? Why, slut-shaming, of course!
In a bizarre, but typically American, twist of fate, Netflix reviewers who bashed Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries by calling the lead character a “tramp,” a “tart,” and a “s!ut” (Netflix censors that one), made the show seem a hell of a lot more interesting. Jezebel writer Rebecca Rose and her readers definitely agreed.
A lady detective who loves sex? Yes, please.
From its very first episode, Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries is alive with sex positivity.
Indeed, the show’s treatment of sex is both blatant and tongue-in-cheek.
One needs only look at the main character’s name – Miss Phryne Fisher.
The original Phryne was a famous hetaera of Ancient Greece. She was, in other words, a high-class prostitute. And though her birth name was Mnesarete, which means to commensurate virtue, she was nicknamed “Phryne.” Which means toad.
The original Phryne was charged with impiety, and some say that when she was taken before the court she disrobed, baring her breasts to highlight her womanhood and arouse compassion. She was acquitted.
Still, the trial made Phyrne famous, and in ancient Greece, “Phryne” quickly caught on as a nickname for prostitutes and courtesans.
Thus, Miss Fisher bears the first name Phryne, and that alone serves as a hint of what is to come.
She is certainly not one to commensurate virtue.
However, despite what those Netflix reviewers believe, her name is also ironic – Miss Fisher is not a slut, or a tramp, or a tart.
Miss Phryne Fisher (Essie Davis) is a lady detective, who also happens to be sharp as a whip, with a shiny gold gun and a magnificent wardrobe to boot.
And, though it is 1920s Australia, she drives a car, flies planes, wears trousers, and sleeps with whomever strikes her fancy.
Her best friend, Dr. Mac, also happens to be a lesbian. Dr. Mac has plenty of (behind-the-scenes) sex of her own, and rarely has a problem finding a lover in the roaring ’20s.
It makes sense that Dr. Mac is such good friends with Phryne Fisher. As a character Phryne is many things, and one of those things is a woman who happens to love good sex–a woman who does not seek to hide her true self.
In a refreshing turn, the show doesn’t seek to hide this either, nor does it give excuses for it.
Take, for example, this exchange with Dr. Mac:
Dr. Mac: Looks like a nerve powder. Usually prescribed for women, of course, the hysterical sex, for nervous exhaustion, emotional collapse, wandering wombs…that sort of thing.
Miss Fisher: Why on earth would a womb wander?
Dr. Mac: Unnatural behavior will do it, according to Hypocrites. Like celibacy.
Miss Fisher: Oh good. Mine’s not going anywhere.
It’s a joke about sex but, television writers of America, it’s not in poor taste! And, once it’s said, the show simply moves on.
Besides occasional sex jokes, Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries features episodes about vibrators, abortion, and women’s rights. It also highlights a wealth of one-night stands, and while the men are attractive, the camera glances over the bodies of Miss Fisher’s lovers as lovingly as it does her gorgeous outfits. It is, in an odd way, the perfect combination of the male and female gaze.
Miss Fisher just happens to want to have sex: that is her sexual choice.
In the very first episode, Phyrne has a sexual relationship with a dancer, Sasha de Lisse, and she later jokes that it was helpful for the investigation:
Miss Fisher: She pointed the finger at Sasha de Lisse, and I was forced to discount him with my own thorough investigation.
However, it’s clear to the viewer that is not the reality of the situation – Phryne had sex with Sasha because she wanted to.
You may wonder…if Miss Fisher has casual sexual relationships, how do the writers show the depth of her character? So often in American television, we rely on our lead actress’ relationship with a man, or potential relationship with a man, as a central plot device. This is particularly common in crime procedurals. Case in point: Castle, Bones, and Scandal.
In an interesting twist, there is a leading man in Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries: Detective Inspector Jack Robinson (Nathan Page). Yet, unlike Castle and Bones and a plethora of other shows, this time the male lead, Jack, is the emotionally reserved one. And, in many ways, Miss Fisher is key to his character’s development.
Without giving too much away, as the series progresses Miss Fisher’s love of life and, dare I say it, sex, leads Jack to ponder new possibilities.
In one instance Phryne, like her namesake, bares her breasts (season 2, episode 1) while performing an undercover fan dance (of course).
Yet, even in this instance her behavior is not frowned upon. Maybe her Catholic maid should be scandalized, but instead she simply sighs, while Jack – now accustomed to Phryne’s personality – smirks. Perhaps the closest one gets in 1920s Australia to rolling one’s eyes.
There is a will-they-won’t-they in Phryne and Jack’s friendship that is evident from the very beginning of the series.
But Miss Fisher never pines. It is clear that she loves sex for sex, and while a relationship with Jack may be somewhere on the horizon, well, she’s not going to be celibate in the meantime.
Some viewers cannot believe that Phryne could flirt with Jack, and truly be interested in him, yet continue to sleep with other men. Certainly, this is not an idea that is commonly shown on television.
But if sex positivity is the idea of informed consent and agency within one’s own sexuality, Phyrne’s relationship with Jack is a prime example of it.
Phyrne is making her own decisions about her own body, and only she can judge what is right for her.
In fact, there is one particular scene from the second season that proves a perfect thesis. Jack and Phryne sit down at a piano, and sing the classic Cole Porter song, “Let’s Misbehave.”
They both know they’re going against societal norms, but neither seems terribly concerned about it.
Jack knows that Phryne sleeps with other men, and she never tries to hide that from him. And while he may not be thrilled, he doesn’t try to stop her. He’s not ready for a relationship with her, so what right does he have to stop her from doing what she pleases?
Through the first three seasons, Phryne sleeps with numerous men. Her sexual conquests, and I’m using that term because I am quite sure that’s how Miss Fisher herself would see them, circumvent race and age.
In Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries sex can be serious, and have consequences (and sometimes lead to murder), but it is also often humorous. In one such scene, Phryne attempts to have sex with a boxer – who’s overly focused on proving how strong he is via push-ups (season 2, episode 4). Miss Fisher’s quite disappointed he won’t just come to bed already.
Miss Fisher: Why don’t you show me here? On the bed?
One of Miss Fisher’s most fleshed out sexual relationships occurs with a Chinese-Australian man, Lin Chung.
While they also socialize, eating meals together and walking through the streets of Melbourne, the purpose of their meetings is clearly sexual in nature.
When Phryne learns that Chung will be entering into an arranged marriage, she continues to sleep with him, but she also stresses that once he has met his bride their sexual relationship will end.
Yes, Phryne has a healthy sex drive and morals – an unusual combination in television.
In an interesting twist, Phryne ultimately helps facilitate the arranged marriage.
And, despite what American television writers may have conditioned us to expect, Phryne does not become a petty, jealous woman. She does not seek to destroy Chung’s relationship and win him back, nor does she feel disrespected.
Miss Fisher is a woman who knows what she wants – who made an educated choice.
Plus, there are other fish in the sea – the boxer, the old friend, the circus performer – after a while the murders do get a tad…outrageous. But the sex stays good.
Emma Thomas is a freelance writer, media development associate, and independent producer. Her musings can be found on Twitter (@EmmaGThomas) and her blog, while her newest film projects can be found at Two Minnow Films.
I had never heard anything like this sketch; I was enthralled. The timing. The repetition. The silence. Such gorgeous pauses. In a world where it feels like we need to fill every space with some yammering, to hear someone on stage using silence–to be brave enough to use it–made me take notice of this person Tig. And not just me. ‘The New York Times’ ran a piece about her 13-minute paean to Taylor Dane.
Tig Notaro needs your attention. I fell in love with her work in 2012 when I heard a This American Life sketch while driving down a highway.
[youtube_sc url=”https://youtu.be/jSwzYB545hY”]
I had never heard anything like this sketch; I was enthralled. The timing. The repetition. The silence. Such gorgeous pauses. In a world where it feels like we need to fill every space with some yammering, to hear someone on stage using silence–to be brave enough to use it–made me take notice of this person Tig. And not just me. The New York Timesran a piece about her 13-minute paean to Taylor Dane.
Then a barrage of sadness and struggle came for her. Tig had a life-threatening infection. Her mother died suddenly. Then Tig was diagnosed with breast cancer.
And this all became material for her standup. And the basis for the Netflix documentary Tig.
The set she did after her diagnosis is already the stuff of comedy legend. Comedians in the room that night began to bow at her feet.
Louis C.K. was there and he ended up selling her set on his site.
Directors Kristina Goolsby and Ashley York follow Tig through the aftermath of illness and grief. I particularly appreciate two elements of the documentary: the focus on writing as a craft and the attention to the struggle of fertility issues. Neither seems to get much good attention in films, and Tig offers the reader a look inside the mind of a female writer who wants to mother a child.
It shouldn’t be surprising that Notaro allows the filmmakers to go so deep into her world; she has come to be known a confessional comic after the set heard round the world. The film is heartbreaking and funny, just like Notaro’s standup. At times we flinch with her as she hears a verdict on her one shot at in vitro, the next moment we are cheering for her as she finds love.
Viewers watch her workshopping a bit, practicing it in front of audiences with different rhythms and wording. Rarely do we get to see the hard work of writing in a film (the closest I have seen such work happening is when I watched Fun Homeon Broadway). The awareness that writing is hard, that Notaro is producing work that requires time, honesty, attention, and a little bit of bravado reminds viewers that art is hard. Even though on stage Notaro makes it look easy.
So it was satisfying to me to see that one joke–about her breasts revolting against her body–come to fruition in her HBO special Boyish Girl Interrupted. The special serves as a climax to the story of Tig in that it finishes the joke. When Notaro takes on the persona of her grumpy breasts, she nails the timing and the wording in front of the sold out theater.
And she happens to do half of the set without her shirt on, her smooth chest an affront to all constricting ideas about what “woman” means.
I questioned whether I should even post a still from the HBO special since in many ways it is like stealing one of her punchlines. Should I have offered you, dear reader, a spoiler alert? Am I taking something from her by using this picture to represent her text?
Is taking off her shirt salacious? Provocative? Evocative? Confessional? All of the above. I implore you to watch the set and answer that question for yourself. I can tell you this: you haven’t seen anything like what Notaro is doing in the mainstream media.
Jacqueline Kim co-wrote the screenplay for Advantageous and also stars as its lead, Gwen Koh.
A version of this post by Leigh Kolb previously appeared at Bitch Mediaand appears now as part of our theme week on Dystopias. Cross-posted with permission.
“Are women really going backwards going forward?”
Advantageous, the new film by Jennifer Phang, paints a dystopia that shows a version of the future that is regressive for women. Perhaps one of the most poignant aspects of the film is that it barely seems futuristic at all; when daughter Jules asks her mother, Gwen, “Are women really going backwards going forward?” we can’t help but involuntarily nod our heads yes, bombarded with the realities of the fictional world in front of us.
In the film, Gwen Koh (played by the incredible Jacqueline Kim) is a single mother to Jules (who is played with remarkable talent by Samantha Kim). Gwen is a corporate spokesperson for the ominous Center for Advanced Health and Living. As she pitches their new technology, she says, “So many of us enter this world with disadvantages beyond our control.” The Center for Advanced Health and Living isn’t limited to face lifts and breast augmentation. Its slogan—”Be the you you were meant to be”—doesn’t merely mean an enhanced you. Instead, this vague empowering message means their technology is ostensibly meant to give you control over your physical disadvantages.
The film—which was awarded a special jury prize at Sundance and started streaming on Netflix June 23—features stunning cinematography, excellent acting, and beautiful writing (albeit sometimes heavy-handed, which I’d prefer to writing that does not attempt to say anything). Advantageous tackles a laundry list of feminist concerns. Gwen is told that she has aged out of her role as a spokesperson, especially considering the “new you” technology they want to sell. It’s noteworthy that the head of the corporation—and the one who seems to have made the decision about letting Gwen go—is a woman of a similar age. Ms. Cryer (Jennifer Ehle) pulls the strings, which shows that it’s not just male forces that destruct and construct the feminine ideal. The world in Advantageous is one that has been designed by women, too, but it’s still a capital of misogyny—radio broadcasts reference the rise in child prostitution, middle-aged women are homeless due to unemployment, and employers prefer to hire men lest they dangerously roam the street. Gwen’s single motherhood is a source of sharp judgment from her peers and her parents. Many of these examples aren’t futuristic at all (see here, here, and here) and Advantageous does a compelling job of showing how while we may advance technologically, we have a lot of social progress to make.
Samantha Kim plays Jules, whose mother faces hard choices about how to give her the best opportunities.
Advantageous is billed as a science fiction film, but it doesn’t feel sci-fi much of the time. Every once in a while, a drone or flying vehicle will jet past, the buildings will look futuristic, or the person on the other end of a phone conversation is a hologram. But for the most part, Advantageous is that kind of chilling dystopian science fiction that looks incredibly familiar. One scene that felt like it could have been any period in the past or present comes when daughter Jules asks Gwen, “Are women really going backwards going forward?” We can’t help but involuntarily nod our heads yes, bombarded with the realities of the fictional world in front of us.
As Gwen is let go from her job and has difficulty obtaining any new prospects (except for selling her eggs, since fertility rates have sharply declined due to pollutants—another not-so-futuristic plot point)–she asks, “Am I too old to be of use?” Again, we nod our heads, agreeing that in the world she lives in—a world that looks much like ours—the answer is yes. The Center also tells Gwen that they are looking for a more “universal look” to be their spokesperson. We assume that means “white” (and young), and director Phang addresses this in an interview with The L Magazine:
“In my mind the phrase ‘universal look’ wasn’t exactly a euphemism for ‘white’ (though it often goes that way), but for a non-specific, multi-racial look. … Jacqueline Kim is Korean-American. The subtext is that Gwen’s look was a benefit to the company for a moment, but that moment had passed.”
This “universal” look that Gwen is supposed to embody is an interesting end game of beauty standards: while beauty ideals may move toward a multicultural aesthetic, they’re still impossible to obtain without the winning genetic lottery ticket. We can hope that whiteness equaling “universal” will eventually change in the future as our population changes, however, Advantageous suggests that almost everyone will always be born at a physical disadvantage in a society that worships the unattainability of eternal youth and beauty.
It’s important to note that in Phang’s created world, “otherness” is highlighted mostly through age, gender, and beauty, and less about ethnicity. At The Verge, Emily Yoshida points out that “Advantageous also happens to have a mostly Asian cast without overtly being about Asianness, which makes it some kind of rare unicorn.” Phang critiques the desire to conform to a universal ideal while at the same time providing an excellent example of how storytellers and filmmakers don’t have to cast white actors for a story to be universal.
Gwen’s ethnicity isn’t what is most disadvantageous to her—it’s her age. How can a naturally aging woman convincingly sell a technology that promises to stop aging? The “ideal woman,” then, is seen as incredibly young and ethnically ambiguous.
Gwen must change so she can save her career and afford opportunities for her daughter. In the film, a woman’s sacrifice and a mother’s sacrifice are woven together to reveal that society continually sacrifices women—older women especially—at the altar of “never good enough.” While Phang beautifully addresses so many issues facing women in our society, she has highlighted her focus on women’s pressure to change. She says:
“One of the deeper concerns that I wrestle with in my work is how women around the world are encouraged to change themselves in many ways to carve out a place and survive. But it was also important to me to investigate, through Gwen, whether the act of choosing to change your surface appearance somehow altered your inner qualities. I wondered whether our self-respect might become altered for better or worse after we commit to a surface change. And does our respect for others increase or decrease if they don’t follow our example? And then… is this a world we can be at peace with? Can we accept a world in which these concerns occupy so much of our energies and potential for productivity?”
In Advantageous, Phang asks many questions, not only of the characters, but also of our own culture. Can we accept this world? Advantageous—and certainly feminists—would resoundingly answer “no.”
Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature, and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.
Dispersed among the footage are archival glimpses into Nina’s journals, where we can read quick sketches of her own thoughts and feelings. And although the particular journal entries are chosen and shaped to fit the narrative Garbus is presenting, it only helps to give us a deeper understanding of the complexity of being a Black woman artist in racist America. Nothing has changed.
What Happpened, Miss Simone Netflix One Sheet
“How can you be an artist and not reflect the times?”
–Nina Simone
Director Liz Garbus could’ve stopped the documentary What Happened, Miss Simone? six minutes into its run time. Nina Simone steps onstage after a lengthy absence from show business. She takes a bow and then stops cold, stares at the audience for what seems like an eternity. Her eyes take in the scene but from my viewpoint, it looks like she is seeing beyond the crowd gathered before her. It’s like she can see the future, what’s coming up for Black people around the bend of time.
Her face is filled with long simmering rage, pain, insolent dark beauty, and unchecked defiance. Here stands an artist struggling to create timely, relevant, serious Black art in front of an overwhelmingly white audience outside of America. She remembers the feeling of isolation and hatred against her for being Black. Nose too big. Lips too full. Skin too dark. Daring to dream of becoming the first Black classical pianist. Denied entry into the Curtis Institute of Music after a short stint at Julliard. Then she sits down. Speaks a few words, and then starts her performance.
“I want to shake people up so bad that when they leave a nightclub where I’ve performed, I just want them to be to pieces”
This small moment, a few seconds really, told me all I needed to know. The documentary could’ve ended right there for me, the look on Simone’s face was that forceful and telling. I have seen that look before. In the eyes of my grandfather when I was little, in the eyes of aunts and uncles and older friends who have been through some shit in America. It’s the eyes of a weary soldier who knows the battle will be long and not finished soon enough.
What makes this documentary extraordinary is that we get to hear and see Nina Simone talk about her life herself. In her own words at the exact times she says them. This is not a typical documentary film where the artist is reflecting back, perhaps shading the truth a little because of time. Garbus uses film footage of Nina speaking, and we are allowed to be time travelers, visiting exact moments in Simone’s life as they are happening. Dispersed among the footage are archival glimpses into Nina’s journals, where we can read quick sketches of her own thoughts and feelings. And although the particular journal entries are chosen and shaped to fit the narrative Garbus is presenting, it only helps to give us a deeper understanding of the complexity of being a Black woman artist in racist America. Nothing has changed.
Nina Simone performing “Mississippi Goddam” in Selma during the historic march.
What I enjoy about the documentary is that Nina is bold and Black with no filters, exactly as I imagined her to be. I started listening to her music with serious intent while in college after presenting a paper on protest music in a History for Teachers class. I wrote of folk singers, like Woody Guthrie, Joan Baez, Odetta, et al, moved into James Brown’s seminal “Say it Loud-I’m Black and I’m Proud” and “I Don’t Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing (Open Up the Door, I’ll Get It Myself)” and introduced my professor and classmates to Simone’s “Missississippi Goddam.” No one had heard of the song or her. I dug into music archives, listening, learning, trying to imagine being a singer of righteous indignation in a world that only wanted Diana Ross and the Supremes type pop music from Black women. I wondered what Nina Simone thought about her work going against the musical dictates of her time. In this documentary, Simone lays it out there for me. And it’s a heartbreaking motherfucker to watch. I had to pause several times in my viewing to catch my breath and process Simone’s words. A reporter interviews Simone late in her life and Nina laments that all she wanted to be was that cherished classical pianist, and tears swell up in her eyes. I had to stop and cry for her too.
The High Priestess adorning hersel for a show.
What Happened, Miss Simone filled me with a lot of anger. I’m angry a lot these days I confess. Angry at the overt racism she lived through, angry at the depression and undiagnosed bipolar disorder she suffered through for so long, and angry at her husband/manager Andrew Stroud. Angry that American racial baggage is still with us as I write these words. The footage of Stroud talking about his life with Nina Simone is a goldmine to have, because we hear directly from the horse’s mouth his adverse reaction to her radicalization during the Civil Rights Movement. In one journal entry Simone wrote:
“I don’t mind going without food or sleep as long as I am doing something worthwhile to me such as this.”
As for her husband’s response to her involvement with the Civil Rights/Black Power Movement, she wrote:
“Andrew was noticeably cold and very removed from the whole affair.”
“Now I could sing to help my people, and that became the mainstay of my life.” Nina on the Civil Rights Movement.
While Simone stands on stage shaping her music to reflect the times she lives in, hoping to inspire and encourage young people to recognize they were young, gifted, and Black, in a world that wanted to crush the life out of them, Stroud sits on film stating with disdain, “She wanted to align herself with the extreme terrorist militants who were influencing her.”
Here was a Black man who was calling young Black radicals fighting oppression terrorists. Black People. In America. Getting their asses bombed, beaten, and bloodied in the streets of a country they built. Are you out of your cotton-picking mind?
Nina Simone with James Baldwin.
No wonder Nina Simone left Andrew Stroud.
It wasn’t enough that he was beating her, working her to death, and dominating her life. He was disrespecting the work that she found meaningful which was making music for her people. I found it condescending and – surprise- sexist, that he believed Simone had no agency of her own to think for herself. He really believed that others outside of her own thinking mind were influencing her decision to write and sing radical Black music, to take up the cause of the Black Panthers and to question the utility of non-violence in the face of violent white Americans. Theirs was a complicated, volatile relationship, and I could only feel deep sorrow for their daughter Lisa Simone Kelley who was caught in between them. Lisa discusses how she later suffered physical abuse at the hands of her own mother after her parents broke up. (Side note: One of my favorite performances of Simone’s “Four Women” includes Lisa Simone Kelly. Watch it here.)
Nina Simone’s only child, singer Lisa Simone Kelly. She is also an executive producer of the documentary.
Simone explains that she was responsible for the livelihood of 19 people who worked for her. The pressure, stress, and physical/mental fatigue made her suicidal. What happens when your soul can’t do what it needs to do? When the thing that you love doing, slowly turns into the thing that you dread and eventually hate? It eats at you and often your mind turns on itself. Another journal entry during this crisis has Simone lamenting, “They don’t know that I’m dead and my ghost is holding on.”
The documentary showcases the highs and many lows, and it gives the viewer an opportunity to glimpse the genius Black woman that Simone was. Her music catalogue and this documentary are like a grimoire for those of us who need to reach into it to conjure up spells of protection and invocations of remembrance. I had to watch it four times to revel in her magic.
Simone in Liberia, Africa. The only time she felt free in her life according to Simone in the documentary.
Near the end of the documentary Nina reflects on how singing political songs hurt her career.
“There is no reason to sing those songs. Nothing is happening,” she says. She is so wrong. We need her songs now more than ever. We need that bold, bruising canon of radical Black music. We are calling on old Black Gods during this Black Lives Matter Movement (and the racist, terrorist attack on the Emanuel AME church in Charleston, South Carolina that ended nine lives, including that of a State Senator), and this High Priestess of Soul can show us the way.
I hear her influence in the recent works of D’Angelo (the Black Messiah album) and Kendrick Lamar (“Alright”) who are writing protest music for this generation. As writer/cultural critic Stanley Crouch says in the film, Nina Simone is the Patron Saint of the Rebellion. All praises due. The struggle continues. This documentary tells us that. Call upon her name. Nina. Simone.
Amen.
High Priestess of Soul and The Patron Saint of the Rebellion.
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Staff writer Lisa Bolekaja co-hosts Hilliard Guess’ Screenwriters Rant Room, and her latest speculative fiction short story “Three Voices” can be read in Uncanny Magazine. She divides her time between California and Italy. She can be found on Twitter @LisaBolekaja. Follow at your own risk.
Tomlin and Fonda’s onscreen chemistry is absolutely spot on, giving life to moments that may otherwise have fallen flat. One of the most refreshing things about Grace and Frankie is its attitude to female sexuality in older women. Life (moreover, sex) doesn’t have to stop because you’re getting older. The series illustrates this with frankness and honesty, and we don’t shy away from seeing the woman in that light.
Something really special is happening in Netflix’s new baby Grace and Frankie. The series aired in its entirety a few weeks ago with relatively little promotion, considering the impressive cast involved. Grace and Frankie marks the return of Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin to comedy television. Not that either of them ever really left the comedy world, though the last time we saw them together was in the ’80s film 9 to 5, which is by all accounts wonderfully funny and female centric. Tomlin and Fonda both starred in 9 to 5 and have been reportedly BFF’s ever since. In a way, following their 2015 Golden Globes presentation, they are almost a pre-cursor to the female comedy duos of today. Think Tina and Amy, Ilana and Abbi, and Wiig and Rudolph. If anyone set the standard for the hybrid hilarious BFFs/comedy duo, it’s Tomlin and Fonda. So, does Grace and Frankie live up to the hype?
Tomlin and Fonda play Frankie and Grace respectively, two women who are shocked to discover that their business partner husbands have been having a secret affair for the past 20 years. They have decided to divorce their wives and marry each other, after the law changes and “we can do that now.” Sol (Sam Waterston) and Robert (Martin Sheen) begin to make a life with each other, whilst Grace and Frankie are left to pick up the pieces. The first episode, aptly titled “The End,” begins with the moment that Robert and Sol break the news to their wives – over dinner at an expensive restaurant (oh the middle-class!). Grace and Frankie are only friends because of their husband’s partnership-turned-relationship, and the only thing they both have in common is that they are both belong to a group of women who are white, mature, middle-class and are generally ladies of leisure; they don’t work and rely on their husbands’ income. Grace is your typical vodka-infused, uptight, emotionless Lucille Bluth type, and Frankie embodies new-age hippie culture and is more at home smoking a joint than “doing lunch.” The set-up of the show is nothing new; we expect the laughs to come from either tired stereotypes surrounding homosexuality or from Grace and Frankie bickering. It’s a pleasant surprise to find that Grace and Frankie doesn’t rely on old and unfunny cliches to make us laugh (or cry).
Whilst Grace and Frankie could easily have tailed off into a comedy about the titular character’s love/hate relationship, the main focus of the series is actually two women supporting each other and pulling one another through an incredibly painful time. The theme of age and the fear of growing old alone is prevalent through the series, reinforcing society’s stigmas about lonely spinsters. Television often has little time for older women, but Grace and Frankie explores the heartbreak and isolation that comes with going through a divorce after 40+ years. Whilst Grace and Robert seem to hate each other (and have done for some time), the saddest story is that of Frankie and Sol. At times gut-wrenching, we see two people who have formed a relationship on the best of a friendships and having to learn to live without it. Tomlin pulls of a phenomenal performance, and epitomizes the highs and lows of such a life changing event. There is a moment in “The Funeral” where Frankie accidentally gets into Sol’s car, forgetting for a moment that they won’t be going home together. It’s a small action, but so significant and Tomlin handles it with perfection.
Even with all the seriousness, Grace and Frankie still has comedy at its heart. There are some wickedly funny lines (that mostly come from Tomlin’s Frankie) and provide plenty of occasions to laugh out loud. The gags don’t come thick and fast, unlike most contemporary comedy scripts, but Kaufman is clearly very happy to let the punchlines linger. It works superbly well because it allows the show to be incredibly funny without having to instantaneously move on to the next joke. At times it almost feels that there should be a laugh track within those pauses, but the absence of one actually helps to cement the reality of Grace and Frankie’s newfound situation. We are laughing because it’s the only way we can deal with this. Who hasn’t been there? There are also some hilarious recurring themes–Frankie’s relationship with technology, Grace’s exploration into sexuality and home-made lube, and the constant quips that the women throw at each other. Tomlin and Fonda’s onscreen chemistry is absolutely spot on, giving life to moments that may otherwise have fallen flat. One of the most refreshing things about Grace and Frankie is its attitude to female sexuality in older women. Life (moreover, sex) doesn’t have to stop because you’re getting older. The series illustrates this with frankness and honesty, and we don’t shy away from seeing the woman in that light. They aren’t just mothers, grandmothers or wives; they are women, with desires and emotions. It would have been great to see more of this, and more of Jane Fonda looking fucking amazing in lingerie!
The supporting cast are very likable, but Grace’s daughter Brianna (June Diane Raphael) is the standout star, often delivering the best lines of the series. The ensemble cast work incredibly well together, providing a neat backdrop for Tomlin and Fonda. Having said that, the romance/non-romance between Coyote (Frankie’s son) and Mallory (Grace’s daughter) was one of the only issues I took with the series. I’m all for sub plots, but neither Coyote or Mallory are particularly engaging characters hence their “affair” seemed incredibly uninteresting, especially in comparison to the far more engaging main narrative.
Grace and Frankie could have also spent more time with its title characters -the show is about them, but a monumental amount of scenes were dedicated to Robert and Sol and the blossoming of their relationship. Whilst it was great to see a gay couple (especially an older gay couple) transcend camp cliches, I couldn’t help thinking that the show isn’t supposed to be about them. Certainly, the series feels more at ease when Tomlin and Fonda are onscreen and I just wished we had seen more of that, instead of the men.
Grace and Frankie triumphs because it doesn’t utilize the gay characters as a trope or a way to increase viewership. Sexuality doesn’t become a selling point. There is more to Robert and Sol than just their relationship, and there is far more to Grace and Frankie than just jilted middle-class ex-wives. It’s a sweet, easy to watch series which not only makes us laugh out loud but also gives us an insight into characters that are usually simply tired stereotypes. It’s probably not going to push any boundaries or make a statement, but enjoyable and well written. I, for one, can’t wait for Season 2.
Becky Kukla is a 20-something living in London, working in the TV industry (mostly making excellent cups of tea). She spends her spare time watching everything Netflix has to offer and then ranting about it on her blog.
It is this point at which things significantly begin to shift in Frank and Claire’s relationship. This entire situation, which occurred in a succession of embarrassments for Frank, clearly served as a challenge to his dominance and an infringement on his masculinity, especially coming from his wife. For Claire, meanwhile, it is evident that while Frank is fighting desperately to enforce his masculinity and remain in power, she has lost all of hers.
Frank and Claire Underwood gaze at each other. “Like sharks love blood”
This guest post by Tilly Grove appears as part of our theme week on Masculinity.
The attributes required to be a head of state and the attributes associated with masculinity have long been concurrent. Indeed, this is at least partly why so many heads of state, certainly in Western societies, are and historically have been men. Leaders are seen to be, or need to be, strong, rational, wise and assertive; these are also traits of masculinity, and considered to be the opposite of those associated with femininity and thus women. Women are seen to be peaceful, impulsive, weak-willed, timid and submissive. Though this is clearly untrue, the perception ensures that women are only able to succeed and be taken seriously in politics if they adopt masculine traits and disown feminine ones. They are placed under intense scrutiny by their rivals and the public to ensure that they do not revert back, and criticism will be invariably gendered.
Francis “Frank” Underwood (Kevin Spacey), the lead character of Netflix’s American remake of the British show House of Cards, is practically designed to showcase masculinity as he schemes his way to the President’s office. We are first introduced to Frank, who is then a congressman of the Democrat Party and House majority whip, finding out that he has not been appointed Secretary of State, an arrangement it is soon revealed that he had orchestrated by securing the election of President Garrett Walker. The show then follows his progression through the White House via less conventional means. He manipulates, exploits, backroom deals, and even kills his way from congressman to vice president and finally into the Oval Office itself. He has no qualms in disposing of his fellow congressmen, lovers, and even the President of the United States to get there, and no method is too underhand.
Frank’s ruthlessness is central to his masculinity. He is unashamed of his thirst for power and he will do anything to achieve what he wants. Even when we think we are seeing a softer side to him–for example when he takes young congressman Peter Russo under his wing to get him on the nominees list for Governor of Pennsylvania, or when he embarks on a symbiotic professional and then sexual relationship with the journalist Zoe Barnes–all is never as it seems. Frank makes reference to the fact, when he visits Barnes on Father’s Day, that he considers those he draws into his web as children when he responds knowingly to her statement that he doesn’t have any with, “Don’t I?” However, far from caring for his “children,” he uses them for his own gains and disposes of them when he is done or they threaten his dominance. When he sabotages Russo in order to fill the governor position with the incumbent vice-president, opening up that seat for himself, he sends the former alcoholic into a downward spiral and eventually kills him, making it look like suicide, when it becomes clear he is a liability. Likewise, when Barnes begins to suspect that Frank is behind this death and the other dealings occurring in the White House at that time, and after she has decided she no longer wants to sleep with him, he pushes her in front of a subway train.
In a more traditional story, we might expect Frank’s wife, Claire, to provide a feminine, maternal complement. Instead, we are given a character who at least on first appearances is every bit as ruthless and power-hungry as her husband. In her appearance, she opts for short, sharp haircuts, grey-blue outfits, and constant steely eyed determination. In her professional life, she is head of an NGO, the Clean Water Initiative, and her own career path seems very important to her. When she works together with Frank on an environmental bill designed to improve Russo’s public reputation and Frank does not give her the money she is expecting, she goes behind his back to ensure the legislation does not pass, and then goes to stay with her former lover Adam Galloway without informing Frank where she is. Considering that up until this point we have seen the two as a unit, sharing cigarettes and supportive words, this is a shock.
Frank and Claire Underwood stare off into the distance. “Trouble ahead?”
After this, it is difficult to gauge exactly the nature of the Underwoods’ marriage. At times, it seems healthy – mutually supportive, loving, and even where they both engage in extramarital affairs, this is only an issue when they are not open with the other about it. At other points, it seems that perhaps Claire is just yet another pawn in Frank’s game. He states in Chapter 3 that he loves her “more than sharks love blood,” but the image that this creates is not one of tenderness, but one of violent lust. Given the two rarely have sex with one another, this lust is defined by power instead. Frank uses Claire’s role with the CWI when he needs to, he uses her personal experiences of rape when he needs to, and he uses her support and her presence when he needs to. Claire is supposed to gain from this situation, too, but in Season 3 it becomes evident that she has not. Claire tries to get voted into a UN ambassadorial role and fails, so she relies on Frank to get it for her instead. When circumstances lead to a public fall-out between the US and Russia, she is then forced to resign, and performs only the role of First Lady. For Claire, this appears to be feminisation against her will.
For both of the Underwoods, we do get an occasional glimpse behind their masks of masculinity. With Frank, it is in his sexuality. Homosexuality is often regarded as being in direct opposition to masculinity, because it is both seen as taking on the traits of femininity and women and also because it requires that a man does not perform the task of dominating a woman. Perhaps this is why Frank is never open with anyone about his tendencies, but it is heavily implied in Chapter 8 that he had some kind of relationship with one of his old friends at military college, Tim Corbet. Later in the show, in Chapter 24, we see the Underwoods engaging sexually with their bodyguard, Edward Meechum. Claire remarks that Frank “needed that.”
For Claire, her struggle appears to be with her latent femininity. When she shows up at Barnes’ flat to demonstrate that nothing about her affair is secret, it is obvious that she is desperate for control, but given that she immediately restarts her affair with Galloway after learning of what is going on with Frank and Barnes, it is likely that there are elements of jealousy and insecurity too. In Season 2, when she uses her friendship with the then-First Lady Patricia Walker to enable Frank to continue to manipulate her husband out of the presidency, upon being told by Patricia that she is a “good person,” Claire puts down the phone and bursts into tears, clearly feeling guilt. Meanwhile, in Season 3, her decision to stay with a gay activist imprisoned in Russia as he starves on hunger strike ultimately leads the relations between America and Russia, that Frank had been working tirelessly on, to break down.
It is this point at which things significantly begin to shift in Frank and Claire’s relationship. This entire situation, which occurred in a succession of embarrassments for Frank, clearly served as a challenge to his dominance and an infringement on his masculinity, especially coming from his wife. For Claire, meanwhile, it is evident that while Frank is fighting desperately to enforce his masculinity and remain in power, she has lost all of hers. This was not the agreement on which their marriage was founded, symbolised by the argument they have on Air Force One after the Russia debacle where Frank states that he should never have made Claire ambassador, and she retorts that she should never have made him president. This conversation sets into motion a chain of events that ultimately leads to Claire packing her bags and leaving. There can be little doubt that the presence of this indomitable masculinity in their relationship, and the constant fight to retain it, played a significant part in the breakdown.
Tilly Grove writes about feminism, pop culture, mental health and more at That Pesky Feminist. She tweets too much about the same at @tillyjean_.
But it’s hard to be on the side of the documentary that continually treats its female subjects like they don’t know what to do, like they’re little girls who’ve wandered off the trail of goodness, like they don’t know any better and the terrible things they’ll experience here will teach them a lesson. That kind of sex negative attitude, and what’s more, “rescuer” mentality that does more harm than good to sex workers.
This is a guest post by Kyle Turner.
There seems to be a fallacy surrounding much of the discussion around the Netflix distributed documentary Hot Girls Wanted, directed by Jill Bauer and Ronna Gradus and produced by Rashida Jones. My friend pointed it out to me the other day that some have noted that it is, by its very existence of showing someone leaving the sex work industry, anti-feminist. I should disclose that I am a cisgendered queer male, but I consider myself a sex positive feminist ally nonetheless. I don’t really have a place to say what is or is not feminist, and I’m disinclined to mansplain. The issue with Hot Girls Wanted, though, is that it takes the cognizance of its subjects and casts it aside in favor of portraying its performers as infantilized victims, which seems like it will do more harm than good.
From the opening moments of the film, a collage of images rushes across the screen in quick succession, a montage ostensibly to illustrate the current culture’s obsession with female sexuality and the objectification of women’s bodies. Included in this clip reel in the din are an interview with Belle Knox, the Duke Porn Star (we’ll talk more about her later) and a clip from Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” music video. Immediately, the film either has a misunderstanding of these clips, or wants to portray them deliberately out of context: Belle Knox has been open about her experiences in the sex work industry, a move that she’s explained is based both in financial need as well as a desire to reclaim a kind of image or agency which is seen to be robbed of women in pornography, or in other facets of sex work. Nicki Minaj’s video is also an interesting thing to pick out and then utilize in this supposed introduction to one’s thesis: sampling Sir Mix a Lot’s “Baby Got Back,” Minaj is overtly trying to subvert and reclaim the gaze upon Black women’s butts, the lyrical and visual content of the full video nodding to denial, sex with a specific goal (personal pleasure), and castration. Yet, out of context, both of these clips just seem like, in the grand scene of this film’s argument, objects for a male audience devoid of autonomy.
It isn’t that that is not true in many cases, that women are often subject to a kind of leering gaze in media that is not used on men, it’s that Hot Girls Wanted has a bunch of rather interesting, very intelligent young women who are cognizant of what they are doing and why, and yet want to invalidate their agency in doing such. The film broadly wants to argue that the pro-am, or professional amateur, porn industry is exploitative and dangerous. While I don’t doubt that that is true, the footage contained in this film not only does not actually show the exploitation it so desperately wants to use as argument, but also, rather than suggest solutions to protect women and other performers in the sex work industry from exploitation (like harsher regulation), suggests rather vehemently that they should not be doing it in the first place.
We encounter and get to know Tressa, Rachel, Karly, Michelle, and Jade, all introduced in some invariably “normal,” inconspicuous way, in addition to their name, stage name, and period of working in the sex work industry via an onscreen rendering of a Twitter profile. This Twitter motif is used throughout the film, but surprisingly little thought goes into it making any kind of cogent meaning with regard to the subjects of the documentary. Though some performers speak explicitly about the characters they play for certain scenes, this idea of performativity, never mind persona, in conjunction to social media is never explored. It’s as if the film is trying to make the subjects seem as bland as possible (which doesn’t totally work) to contrast against the work that they do. They’re all around 18-22, a point that’s made in order to infantilize each person.
Despite the fact that nearly all of the performers are, as aforementioned, cognizant of what they are doing and why, the directors take specific steps to invalidate their words: moribund music cues underline Tressa’s declaration that this is what makes her happy; Michelle says “people are going to see it anyways” not once, but carefully edited so she says it three times; Jade examines the performative nature of facial abuse, but the scene leans on the actual performance to undercut her agency in the matter; Rachel talks about a mild injury on the set of a bondage scene and recalls how sensitive and receptive the crew was in terms of her safety, but the scene it against framed with grim music; the girls watch another Belle Knox interview, which is then juxtaposed against one of Knox’s scenes of facial abuse, again seemingly utilized to invalidate her autonomy in the matter.
The Belle Knox scene is particularly interesting because, for a poor documentary that mostly fails to build any kind of substantive argument (regardless of whether or not I agree with said argument), it’s able to articulate several different discourses that the film at large never seems interested in. On the one hand, it’s several Latina performers, including Jade, watching this interview. They scoff, Jade remarking that, in response to Knox’s vehement feminism and financial need, she and other performers have been doing it for years and already know how that model works. Jade succinctly critiques a racist capitalist model that benefits rich white women going to prestigious universities. (Another thing the film never gets into is why these subjects would be interested in doing this work in the first place, inasmuch as the current job climate necessitating it.) From another approach, there is that sharp contrast between Knox’s confident interview and the facial abuse scene itself, which feels to be used intentionally in a maternal way, skeptical of this young woman’s awareness.
Which is one of Hot Girls Wanted’s major issues: the maternalistic skepticism with which it treats all of its subjects. We follow Tressa perhaps the most closely, from her home life where her mother knows and vehemently disapproves of her work, to her boyfriend, who also disapproves of her work, to the actual work, and back again. As the film profiles her towards the beginning, she mentions how happy this job makes her, how she would hate to live at home (in Florida) and work a minimum wage job. By the end of the film, both her mother and her boyfriend essentially guilt trip her into quitting, almost victim blaming her. “Dignity” and “self-respect” are thrown around in the conversation, inferring she has none because she’s in the sex work industry. The last time we see her on screen, she’s living with her boyfriend, saying that getting out of porn was all she ever wanted. But there’s an odd reticence to her voice, as if she’s trying to convince herself.
Which is where the fallacy I mentioned at the beginning of this piece comes in: it’s entirely her, as it is anyone else’s, prerogative to do sex work or to leave sex work. But it’s hard to be on the side of the documentary that continually treats its female subjects like they don’t know what to do, like they’re little girls who’ve wandered off the trail of goodness, like they don’t know any better and the terrible things they’ll experience here will teach them a lesson. That kind of sex negative attitude, and what’s more, “rescuer” mentality that does more harm than good to sex workers.
The intentions are well-placed to some degree, but the tone deafness and willful ignorance of what its subjects are actually saying and how they feel about the work is worrisome and even dangerous. Hot girls may be wanted, but in an ironically patriarchal move, their voices and opinions are not.
Kyle Turner (@tylekurner) is a freelance film critic and writer. He’s also the assistant editor of Movie Mezzanine and began writing on the Internet in 2007 with his blog The Movie Scene. Since then, Kyle has contributed to TheBlackMaria.org, Film School Rejects, Under the Radar, and IndieWire’s /Bent. He is studying cinema at the University of Hartford in Connecticut and relieved to know that he’s not a golem.
‘Sense8’ is a clusterfuck of clichés, mediocre storylines and inept world building. Still, binge watch the series to enjoy the human journey of the eight sensates and maybe the Wachowskis and Netflix will take note and improve season 2 – they’ve mapped out five seasons. ‘Sense8’ will prosper on Netflix.
The paradoxical desire for global inclusivity that is created or controlled from an American perspective is characteristic for our modern pop culture. Harsh, maybe. We are in the 21st century after all, so it seems more than natural – albeit refreshing in our current cinematic climate of reboots – to explore an array of themes such as religion, gender identity and politics (LGBT) all served with a thin layer of sci-fi. The Wachowskis put their own spin on the mosaic narrative with Sense8. Robert Altman’s Short Cuts, Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia and Alejandro Gonzaléz Iñárritu’s Babel paved the way. Sense8 aims to portray the brittleness of cultural barriers and the importance of global unity. Do the Wachowskis succeed?
Directors Lana and Andy Wachowski ventured from the start of their career into the field of “mindfuck” cinema. Their previous work on the Matrix trilogy, V for Vendetta,Speed Racer, and Ninja Assassin prepared them for their Magnum opus: the film version of the incomparable deemed novel of David Mitchell: Cloud Atlas– or was it the critically panned Jupiter Ascending?
The announcement of the series created a lot of buzz online but criticism rose against Lana Wachowski as a result of her previous comments when it came to the racial insensitivities in Cloud Atlas; and the fact that Wachowski was a keynote speaker at the Chicago Trans 100 – this annual event honors influential voices that are leading the transgender movement. In her speech she tried to focus on the “eradication of otherness,” but made several anti-Black comments, compared the current trans movement and its hardships to the American Civil Rights Movement, and appropriated Indigenous language. This is the same woman who brought us the premise of diversity with Sense8. Dilemma.
Sun and Capheus connect
Sense8 has a challenging narrative structure. Eight different places, eight protagonists and eight stories that seemingly fit together as matryoshkas. The eight characters all influence each other in subtle ways and thereby change the course of events. In an interview with Buzzfeed director Joe Straczynski states,“ It’s a global story told on a planetary scale about human transcendence and what it ultimately means to be human in a contemporary society.” Right.
The plot centers around the idealistic Chicago cop Will (Brian J. Smith) who has father issues; Icelandic DJ Riley (Tuppence Middleton) who runs from her traumatic past; happy-go-lucky Kenyan bus driver Capheus who is obsessed with Jean Claude Van Damme (Aml Ameen); Korean business woman Sun (Bae Doona) who is a kick ass martial artist at night and deals with her inept brother and father; Mexican telenovela actor Lito (Miguel Angel Silvestre) who is closeted and afraid to come out, Indian scientist Kala (Tina Desai) who is stuck in a “love match” with a man she doesn’t love; German criminal Wolfgang (Max Riemelt) who struggles with his Slavic family; and San Franciscan blogger and ex-hacktivist Nomi (Jamie Clayton) who is a transwoman and is haunted by her family’s disproval. The series was shot in San Francisco, Chicago, Mexico City, London, Berlin, Iceland, Mumbai, Nairobi, and Seoul.
The eight strangers have one thing in common and that is that they’ve evolved into “sensates” and thus can share the thoughts, feelings, memories, skills, and experiences of other sensates. At the start of the series, the sensate Angelica (Daryl Hannah) and Jonas (Naveen Andrews) give “birth” to the group of adult sensates which ties them together into a “cluster”, which means that they can reach out to each other without being in physical contact first. The cluster is composed of eight sensates who are all born at the exact same time but are scattered all over the world. Conveniently enough they can use each other’s language, knowledge and skills. Well, no story is complete without the big bad wolf. The cluster is haunted by the Biologic Preservation Organization (BPO) under the leadership of Whispers (Terrence Mann).
The series has a very slow start. The Wachowskis take their sweet time to introduce all the characters. Will is the one who sets the story in motion when he finds out he can connect with other people – and has had a similar experience in his childhood. Jonas contacts Will and reassures him, “You’re not losing your mind, it’s just expanding.” Nomi often questions the ability of the sensates and her girlfriend’s mother quips, “ To be something more than what evolution would define as ‘yourself,’ you’d need something different from yourself.” Lovely pseudo-profound statement.
Nomi and Amanita
The Wachowskis made the creative choice to focus more on the day to day lives of the sensates and their relationships with their loved ones instead of fully embracing the sci-fi element. There should be a better balance between the sci-fi elements and the different relationships of the sensates. It truly distorts the flow of the series. The Wachowskis try to embrace the equality of different world culture and underline the universality of the human experience. It seems that they aimed for a similar vibe as seen in documentary films such as Baraka or Koyaanisqatsi.
However, they opt to include every cliché in the book when it comes to the non-western countries and the characters. Mexico City looks like it was copied out of a popular telenovela; Mumbai is multicolored, lots of jewelry, flowers, Hindu iconography and Kala busted out the classic Bollywood dance with her fiancé; Seoul is almost sterile with a grey-futuristic aesthetic and lots of mirrors and windows; Nairobi looks sweaty and lots of earth tones were used; and Reykjavik and London look like glossy tourist commercials and so on and so forth…
Naturally, Kala is a smart scientist who is stuck in a “love match” but knows that the arranged marriage will make her family very happy. Capheus is a poor yet happy bus driver who cares for his sick mother. Her illness? AIDS. He also has several battles with the local gangs. At first glance, Sun’s story seemed the most fleshed out. Only her arc reaffirms several stereotypes on East Asian culture, see the manifestation of sexism (“Oh, I wish my daughter was a son”) and she’s the ultimate fighter. Despite filming in Korea, the city is only used as a backdrop in the ultra-masculine business where Sun works or a seedy night club scene; Lito is the colorful, sensitive yet conservative homosexual telenovela actor who doesn’t want to bring his career in jeopardy by coming out. Honorable mention goes to Will as the idealistic white cop who tries to safe a black child’s life after he’s been shot and the Black nurse at the ER refuses to help at first and asks him if it will be worth it. Luckily this element of his arc was quickly dropped.
When it comes to (pop) cultural influences, they’re all American. Capheus is obsessed with Jean-Claude Van Damme. Wolfgang and his friend live by the philosophy of Conan the Barbarian and Riley inspires the cluster to a sing along with the 4 Non Blondes song “What’s Going On?” We are not introduced to the local (pop) culture of Mumbai, Mexico City, Seoul or Nairobi – besides the tired cliché of Kala’s Bollywood dance.
The creative decision to let all the characters speak English albeit with a hint of an accent here or there seemed unnecessary. In the other Netflix show, Daredevil, several characters spoke their native language and subtitles would suffice. On the other hand, there are small moments in the series where you know that the sensates speak to each other in their own language but because of their connection they understand each other, e.g. when Sun and Capheus meet and they understand each other, Sun asks him, “Do you speak Korean?” and Capheus says, “No.”
It has to be said, all eight storylines are mediocre when you look at them separately. Riley’s tragic loss is wonderfully acted but looks too familiar. Capheus’ narrative brings at times some lighthearted relief but it doesn’t add to the general arc. Lito, his boyfriend Hernando and beard Daniela have great chemistry- a Tumblr dream come to life. Yet, Lito’s narrative stands on his own until the last couple of episodes where’s he’s pulled into the fight of the sensates to rescue Riley. The only exception could be Nomi – played by the trans actress Jamie Clayton (!) – who plays an important part as a San Franciscan trans female character who fight society’s standards and the occasional TERF. Her arc is natural, layered and she has wonderful chemistry with her very supportive girlfriend Amanita.
Some of the performances fall flat and the swishy camerawork definitely doesn’t add to the quality. You can’t escape the cheesiness and terrible, terrible dialogue. Sure, Sun and Wolfgang are always used as the fighters when the others are in trouble; Will brings his critical thinking skills in times of duress; Capheus knows how to drive the get-a-away car; Lito will tell the perfect lie; Nomi can erase you from the internet; and Riley plays the white damsel in distress whilst being in a bland relationship with Will. All the sensates are seemingly good, kind and idealistic. Nevertheless, it still is a welcome change from the usual assholes that parade on our screens. Plus: Diversity (!).
Why should you watch Sense8? A) The genuine bond between all the sensates; B) The series really flows when the sensates finally work together to fight against Whispers and BPO and manage to control their skills; C) The Wachowskis do know how to aptly bring fight choreography to life on screen.
Sense8 is a clusterfuck of clichés, mediocre storylines and inept world building. Still, binge watch the series to enjoy the human journey of the eight sensates and maybe the Wachowskis and Netflix will take note and improve season 2 – they’ve mapped out five seasons. Sense8 will prosper on Netflix.
Lindsay does not like to think of herself as a mother. Whether it has to do with her negative feelings about her own mother, or the fact that it might make her seem old (or, quite possibly, a combination of both), it becomes very obvious that she does not seem to feel comfortable in this role.
Now the story of a wealthy family who’s literally lost it and the two mothers who had no clue how to keep it all together. It’s Arrested Development.
When it comes to parenthood, there is little to be learned from the Bluth family other than how not to do it. There are bad parenting choices all over the place. Moreover, when it comes to parenthood, discussions usually focus on the mother as the central character involved in the matter, sidelining the dads, which has to do with the antiquated gender roles our society is still prone to perpetuate. It is due to this habit that when talking about bad parenting, it is the mothers who are judged a lot more harshly than the fathers. When a mother neglects what is still often believed to be her natural role of the nurturing individual in a child’s life, she often faces scrutiny and reproach. Acknowledging this inadequacy, this article will nonetheless concentrate on the mothers of Arrested Development. Let the record show, however, that the fathers of the Bluth family are just as bad, if not worse.
Lucille Bluth, the matriarch of the family, has managed to raise her kids to resent her. The four (later to be five) siblings don’t usually agree on much. All the more telling is the fact that they readily agree on one thing: that their mother is a horrible person.
She has, however, maintained the love and loyalty of her youngest son, Buster, by strictly repressing his independence. The two of them have an inappropriately codependent relationship which, at times, reaches disturbing levels.
Lindsay Bluth has handled her daughter in the exact opposite way. She rarely knows Maeby’s whereabouts, nor does she seem to care at all. She prides herself on her liberal parenting style and all the freedom she is giving her daughter, when in reality, she simply fails to take notice of her.
While Maeby does enjoy the pleasures of a laisser-faire upbringing and the ability to take control of her own life as she pleases, she is also deeply hurt by her parents’ neglect.
All of this, however, is, in all its awfulness, used – and works perfectly – as a comedic device.
Stay-in-bed Mom
Not only does Lindsay forget Maeby’s birthday every single year, but she oftentimes fails to acknowledge, or even forgets, that she actually has a child. Thus, over the course of the previous four seasons, Maeby goes through a whole series of attempts to shock or spite her parents, none of which are successful, as they go completely unnoticed. This is already established in the very first episode when she tries to teach her parents a lesson about how their family ties are so loose that she doesn’t even know her own cousin, by kissing George Michael on the mouth – consequently sending him into a spiral of awkwardly improper feelings for her.
Her parents’ disinterest in her life reflects in her performance at school. Lindsay doesn’t care what grades Maeby gets, nor does she even know what grade she is in. This does work to Maeby’s advantage when she decides to quit school and work as a fake but highly successful movie executive instead.
Interestingly enough, Maeby’s constant need to rebel against her parents takes after Lindsay to some extent. After all, the whole reason Lindsay married Tobias was to spite her parents who, as they make perfectly clear, will never like nor accept him.
Lindsay does not like to think of herself as a mother. Whether it has to do with her negative feelings about her own mother, or the fact that it might make her seem old (or, quite possibly, a combination of both), it becomes very obvious that she does not seem to feel comfortable in this role. When she refuses to take Maeby to the Bluth company’s Christmas party, she argues: “You see, if I show up with you, it’ll just make me seem like I’m a mother.” As Maeby replies, “I’ve never thought of you that way,” which speaks volumes in itself, Lindsay is flattered and responds, “That’s sweet.”
Season 4 illustrates quite clearly the relationship between Lindsay and her daughter. In the two episodes dealing with Lindsay’s experience, Maeby is not a part of the plot. This is foretold metaphorically as Lindsay deems her framed photos of Maeby unnecessary baggage and leaves them behind, because her suitcase is too full. As a matter of fact, Maeby only appears in these episodes disguised as a shaman, which isn’t revealed until later in the season. This can be seen as an apt metaphor for Maeby’s struggle of being around all the time but never being seen. The episode centers around Lindsay, who, when asked by said shaman whether she has kids, instinctively says no.
Maeby’s Season 4 episode, on the other hand, deals exclusively with her trying to get her parents to notice that she is flunking high school – unsurprisingly, to no avail. As it turns out, Lindsay and Tobias have sold their house and gone their separate ways, abandoning Maeby, who they both believe they had sent to boarding school. While she is visibly disappointed by all of this, she is clearly not at all surprised. This goes to show just how badly she already thinks of her parents and how well she blends in with the Bluth family, where oblivion is king and no one has any respect for anyone.
One thing Lindsay deserves some credit for, though, is that by not caring about Maeby, she is also very accepting of her. Lucille, on the other hand, is highly critical of her children, especially focusing her verbal disapproval on Lindsay. Her looks and weight in particular are what Lucille loves to dwell on. When Lindsay declares that she “doesn’t feel like being criticized around the clock,” Lucille’s harsh, yet hilariously nonsensical reply is: “I don’t criticize you. And if you’re worried about criticism, sometimes a diet is the best defense.”
In fact, Maeby does learn to appreciate her mother’s aloofness when she briefly befriends Lucille, who quickly starts subjecting her to the same rebuke about her physical appearance. She subsequently even tells Lindsay that she’s glad to have her as a mom.
Another thing that sets Lindsay apart from her mother Lucille is that she is not a control freak. Lucille who, incidentally, sometimes happens to be out of control due to her excessive drinking, keeps tabs on all the goings-on in the Bluth family. In a way, she is the evil puppeteer of the family, monitoring her children’s every move and manipulating them not only into doing things for her and getting her what she wants, but also into turning against each other for that very purpose.
Her fear of her children ganging up on her is another reason she pits them against each other. In Season 1, for instance, she tells Lindsay that Michael thinks of her as a stay-in-bed mom – when it was really her, who coined this ever so fitting description of her daughter.
Maeby pretending to move out of the model home, in an effort to outrage her parents. Lindsay, meanwhile, is sound asleep.
A run for their money
Despite their differences (of opinion and in general), Lucille and Lindsay share quite a few (appalling) characteristics.
While they both have a very hands-off parenting style, they certainly have a very hands-on attitude towards the family money. When it comes to finances, both are hugely irresponsible. They have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle and are not willing to relinquish it in the face of their going broke. In a family where no one cares about anything but themselves, they take whatever they can get their hands on, mostly by lying to everyone about everything – that being another character trait the Bluth family has collectively perfected.
Not unlike the rest of the Bluths, they are both entirely out of touch with reality. Whether it’s Lindsay’s pretend interest in political causes and desultory fundraisers, or Lucille’s bizarre appraisal of the world (“I mean, it’s one banana, Michael. What could it cost? Ten dollars?”), it becomes very clear that money is a non-issue for them. This does not change in a time where it should be and is very much of great concern, seeing as the company is in jeopardy of going out of business.
With the goal of maintaining her luxurious lifestyle, she uses her children as pawns in order to maneuver her way around her son Michael’s policy of handling the company money responsibly. What matters to her is that she gets her way. Her disregard of other people’s feelings also shows in how overly vocal she is about disliking her children, especially GOB. Out of her four biological children she clearly harbors the most disdain for him. After her “baby,” Buster, Michael seems to be the one who she is the fondest of. The way she phrases this demonstrates not only her inability to say something nice to her children, but also how much of a burden she seems her children to view as: “You are my third least favorite child.”
However, this fondness might have to do with the fact that he handles the family money. A case in point is the following conversation in Season 1:
Michael: “I don’t have the money, alright, Mom?”
Lucille: “Then why are you here?”
Not only does she not make a secret out of not liking her children, at times she even goes out of her way to be mean to them. For example in Season 1, when she deliberately tries to hit GOB with her car, which she later blames on an unsuspecting Michael. In order to prevent him from remembering what really happened that night, she repeatedly hits him over the head with heavy objects, all the while pretending to be the caring mother figure who just wants the best for her son and is there to nurse him.
Speaking of nursing…
When George Sr. goes to prison, Lucille’s grip on Buster tightens. For fear of being all alone, she relies on her youngest son to be there for her. This works well for poor, brainwashed Buster, whose affection for Lucille knows no bounds.
As the overbearing mother that she is to him, she dresses him, gives him baths and decides what he can and can not do. In return, he does what he can to serve and please her, which grows more absurd as the series progresses: From the fairly harmless zipping up of her dresses to the unsettling practice of a mouth-to-mouth ritual when Lucille takes up smoking and Buster inhales the smoke from her mouth and blows it out the window, because she refuses to get up to do this herself.
Despite all this closeness and codependence, their relationship is subliminally based on a mutual hatred of some kind. His constant presence, as they can no longer afford to send him off to postgraduate studies, annoys Lucille and she starts to resent Buster.
Small, yet very real insults are exchanged behind each other’s backs. Lucille says about him, “His glasses make him look like a lizard,” whereas Buster speaks his mind to his siblings, who regularly badmouth their mother themselves: “She gets off on being withholding.”
Aside from being terrible at parenting, Lucille is an alcoholic. While she is usually heavily “under the influence,” the whole family is subject to and under the influence of her insane whims.
Her drinking might also help explain why Buster seems a little bit strange in general. When he unwittingly drinks alcohol for what we believe to be the first time, the narrator clarifies: “It was the first taste of alcohol Buster had since he was nursing.”
Clearly, theirs is a love of many a troubling detail. There are little clues dropped here and there that shape up to an image of an unhealthy, sheer unbreakable bond between mother and son. It is a slippery slope from Buster’s remarks such as “This is not how my mother is raising me” (note the present tense) to Lucille admitting in Season 3 that she has only just quit taking her post-partum medication, 32 years after having Buster. Michael gently suggests “cutting the cord,” but Lucille isn’t having any of it. “He needs me” and “he’s weak” are her excuses to keep him under her wing.
When ultimately he does break free from Lucille’s dominant parenting, he literally doesn’t get very far: He gets involved with Lucille’s best frenemy, Lucille 2, who lives across the hall, and quickly moves in with her. In a way, she takes on the role of a mother-substitute while also being Buster’s lover, the lines of which seem to be a big blur for Buster as it is, as is often insinuated throughout the seasons of the show, but especially in season 4.
For the first time, Buster is free from Lucille and greatly enjoys his newfound liberation (with the other Lucille). He wants to experience life and do all the things his mother never allowed him to do.
Meanwhile, a jealous Lucille, who has never lived alone, is initially terrified and tries to break up Buster and Lucille 2. However, it doesn’t take long for her to also explore her freedom, and soon she is found dancing drunk in her apartment, smoking a cigar and singing along to “Mama’s all alone, Mama doesn’t care, Mama’s lettin’ loose” blasting on the stereo.
As the two of them are living it up without each other, it becomes clear that this is not a long-term solution. Buster eventually breaks up with Lucille 2: “I’ve already got a Lucille in my life!”
However, Buster is not the only one to seek a replacement for the other. Lucille needs the security of taking care of “her baby” and takes whoever is convenient to her at the moment.
Lucille’s trust in Buster is shaken and she gets an adoptive child who she believes to be named Annyong (“Hello”). She uses him to make Buster jealous as a type of revenge for him leaving her for a different Lucille. Though she is deeply annoyed by the kid who hardly ever speaks a word other than “his name,” she still keeps him with her as a way of showing Buster how little he is needed.
When Buster goes off to the army, she admits that if anything were to happen to him, she would be lost.
She instantly pulls George Michael close to her and declares, “You’re going to have to be the baby of the family” and with a kiss on the cheek she commands, “You’re never going in the ocean. You’re my baby, I’m never letting you go!” as she holds him in a tight embrace.
Undoubtedly, she is not thinking clearly in this state of emergency, because usually, Lucille isn’t one for showing her affection. In fact, as she once hugs Michael, he seems startled and confused as to what is happening.
What is remarkable about the Bluth family is that, considering all their resentment toward and estrangement from each other, they are exceptionally close. They see each other every day or speak on the phone and while those are rarely friendly interactions, they are still very involved in each other’s lives.
All the overwhelming chaos and the myriad of issues create a wide array of feelings – and where there are feelings, there is certainly a bond. In the end, they can count on being there for each other, even when bribing is usually involved.
Lastly, it remains to say that Jessica Walter is brilliant in the role of the detached, alcoholic mother. For all those who can’t get enough of the wonderful and hilarious Lucille, there is always the adult animated TV series Archer, where Walter voices a character that bears an uncanny resemblance to Lucille Bluth.
