Sex Workers Are Disposable on ‘Game of Thrones’

When we are introduced to Ros, she is working in Winterfell but as war approaches she decides to try her luck in King’s Landing expressing the view that if all the men leave for war there is not going to be much for her in Winterfell. Once there she goes from being “just a sex worker” to getting involved in the politics of the realm by becoming the right hand woman of Little Finger and subsequently double crossing him by becoming an agent for Varys. However despite her many interesting qualities and potential for interesting storylines, Ros basically exists for one reason to provide exposition regarding male characters on the show while naked. She is sexposition personified.

While Game of Thrones is frequently problematic, one of the things it does well is having a wide range of interesting female characters. Despite this, there are some women on the show who fall into the roles that are normally reserved for women on film and television; that is, to tell us things about dudes. This is particularly true of the female sex workers on the show. A perfect example of this is Ros. Interestingly, Ros is a character that does not exist in the books. She is an invention of the television show’s writers and producers. It is likely that she takes the place of two other sex worker characters who are women of colour.

Ros is the first sex worker we see on Game of Thrones.  She is masterfully acted by Esme Bianco who does wonderful things with the limited material she is given. Her portrayal of Ros allows us to view her as intelligent, witty, ambitious, and pragmatic. At first Ros manages to avoid most of the traditional sex worker tropes that exist such as the disposable sex worker and the hooker with the heart of gold. She makes no apologies for being a sex worker and does not consider herself to be a tragic victim of her circumstances. She is simply making money in the most efficient way she knows how.

 

Ros and Tyrion Lannister
Ros and Tyrion Lannister

When we are introduced to Ros, she is working in Winterfell but as war approaches she decides to try her luck in King’s Landing expressing the view that if all the men leave for war there is not going to be much for her in Winterfell. Once there she goes from being “just a sex worker” to getting involved in the politics of the realm by becoming the right hand woman of Little Finger and subsequently double crossing him by becoming an agent for Varys. However despite her many interesting qualities and potential for interesting storylines, Ros basically exists for one reason to provide exposition regarding male characters on the show while naked. She is sexposition personified.

The very first time we see her she is entertaining Tyrion Lannister at the Winterfell brothel. Their interaction serves to inform us that Tyrion is both famous for being a philanderer and generally a good hearted person who is nice to people who exist on the margins despite his great wealth and power. Next up there is Theon Greyjoy Ros helps reveal to us as the audience a number of things about him. Firstly, that he has a chip on his shoulder about his status in Winterfell. Secondly he is basically a hostage living with the Starks because of his father’s traitorous actions. She helps to reveal his particular insecurities as well as expose some of his backstory, all without any clothes on – handy. In fact Ros basically spends the entirety of season one with her clothes off allowing men to tell her things about themselves. Littlefinger gets to fill in some back story while she is naked on screen. Joffrey reminds us of just how evil he is (again) by forcing Ros to brutally beat her friend and fellow sex worker when Tyrion buys a night with them for Joffrey as a present. On and on it goes.

Ros
Ros as Littlefinger’s Right Hand

The saddest part about Ros is that while she mostly exists as a plot device, there was always potential there for her to develop as a character. She had many traits that would have made her very interesting to watch as the story unfolded. However that is not to be, because those who make the decisions decided that Ros had outlived her usefulness. She had proven just how terrible Little Finger and Joffery were and the final flourish was her death. Ros turned out to be a disposable sex worker after all and the way that she is killed off proves it.

It was her compassion for Sansa Stark that is Ros’ downfall. She tells Varys details that only she could know about Littlefinger’s plans for her and despite Varys promising to protect her he finds out and she ends up dead. Her death is graphic and horrifying. We do not see her die, we are just treated to a vision of her corpse as Littlefinger tells Varys that one of his investments had betrayed him and therefore had to be disposed of. We are treated to a vision of Ros tied to Joffery’s bed, semi clothed with arrows piercing her body including her genitals. The camera lingers over the gory details. The idea is clear, as we look at Ros’ ravaged body we are meant to think about Littlefinger and what a horrible person he is. Ros’ death is a simply a footnote in the stories of the great men who she fucks.

Interestingly, Esme Bianco mentioned in an interview that she argued for having less nude scenes so that she could have cool costumes like the other characters on the show. Perhaps due to her self-advocacy, her character ended up with no nude scenes in season three, and it seemed as though she was very much on the verge of becoming a proper character, one that is fully realized and has their own plot. Before that could actually happen, she was killed off as if she didn’t matter at all.

There are many things I enjoy about Game of Thrones, but there are perhaps just as many things that I find problematic within it; their treatment of Ros is definitely one of them. The excuses that Game of Thrones is set in both an extremely patriarchal and extremely violent culture do not fly. I think they are cop-outs. The show has beaten us over the head with the evilness of Joffrey and Littlefinger. I personally feel that the scene where he takes Ros aside when she starts crying in front of one of her clients after the baby of her friend is killed in front of her, is much more chilling than the gruesome horror of her death. Subtlety is obviously not something the show is interested in. At the end of the day, the Game of Thrones treatment of Ros simply reinforces dominant societal narratives about sex workers, i.e. that their humanity is unimportant and that it is a dangerous occupation that women should know better than to take up. This is disappointing from a show that is often progressive in the way that it handles female characters.


Gaayathri Nair is a writer currently located in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, although this is set to change soon. She is the child of diaspora two times over and is passionate about all forms of social justice. She likes to travel and prefers television to movies; however, she feels a strange compulsion to watch all movies that have fish-eating people in them, no matter how terrible they are. She has a Bachelor’s degree in Political Studies from the University of Auckland and she has spent her formative years working at various types of feminist organizations from the community to the regional in both New Zealand and around Asia. Her work has been featured around the feminist blogosphere including Flyover Feminism, Feministe, and Leftstream as well as in United Nations and NGO publications. You can find more of her work at her blog A Human Story and tweet her @A_Gaayathri.

“I Misbehave”: Lesbian Dominatrix Irene Adler, Sex Work and ‘Sherlock’

Season Two Episode One of ‘Sherlock,’ “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.

Written by Amanda Rodriguez
Season Two Episode One of Sherlock, “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.
In the original version, Adler is an opera singer who had an ill-advised affair with the prince of Bohemia, and he discontinued the affair because he was to become king and thought she was beneath his station. Adler threatens to expose the photos if the now king announces his engagement to another woman. In the updated TV episode, Adler is a high-priced lesbian dominatrix who operates under the pseudonym “The Woman” and holds photos of a high-ranking female member of the British nobility.
Irene Adler: lesbian dominatrix and general BAMF
Confession: I love Irene Adler. She’s infamous for her sensuality, independence, intelligence, and her ability to manipulate. Throughout the episode, Adler and Sherlock match-up wits, and Adler proves to be the cleverer one right until the very end. Adler establishes herself as the quintessential femme fatale. When contrasted with the other female characters throughout the series, she is the only one who is given a strong representation. The coroner, Molly Hooper, is a doormat, waiting for Sherlock to notice her and her inexplicable affection for him. Mrs. Hudson is a doddering old lady whom Sherlock abuses but takes umbrage if others treat her in a similar fashion, in a way claiming her as his property to abuse or reward at his own whim. Finally, there’s the recurring character of Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, a tough, but mistrustful police officer who always thinks the worst of Sherlock and is too simple-minded to follow his deductions.
Though Sherlock doesn’t know it, Adler is well-prepared for their first encounter when Sherlock shows up on her doorstep impersonating a mugged clergyman. In parody of his earlier nude appearance at Buckingham Palace, Adler presents herself to Sherlock in her “battle dress,” i.e. completely naked. This proves to be a cunning ploy because Sherlock can deduce little about her character without the aid of clues from her clothing. Not only that, but Adler maneuvers Sherlock to help her ward off some C.I.A agents by using her measurements as the code to open her booby trapped (har, har) safe. Adler then drugs and beats Sherlock until he relinquishes her camera phone, which contains a host of incriminating evidence that she claims she needs for protection. She ends their memorable first encounter by saying, “It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you.”
Illustration by Hilbrand Bos
Minus all the sexy dominatrix stuff, this is where the original Holmes story ends. Irene Adler disappears, retaining her protective evidence, and Sherlock must forevermore admire and be galled by The Woman who beat him. The BBC episode, however, takes creative license to continue the story, having Adler fake her own death only to show up six months later demanding Sherlock give back the camera phone that she’d sent to him presumably on the eve of her death. For six months, Sherlock has done his version of mourning, as only an admittedly high-functioning sociopath can (becoming withdrawn, composing mournful violin music, smoking, etc.). Does he mourn, we wonder, the death of a woman for whom he’d grown to care, or does he regret the loose end, the loss of a chance to ever reclaim his victory and trounced ego from such a superior opponent?
Before her faked death, Adler sent frequent flirtatious texts to Sherlock, with the refrain, “Let’s have dinner.” Sherlock responded to none of her messages, lending increased weight to the significance of their relationship. Upon her resurrection, Adler confesses that despite the fact that she’s a lesbian, she has feelings for Sherlock. Her feelings, in a way, mirror those of Watson, a self-proclaimed straight man who clearly has a deep emotional attachment to Sherlock. Sherlock then forms the apex of a peculiar love triangle at once sexual and cerebral.
Alternate Adler Kissing Sherlock
“Brainy is the new sexy.” – Irene Adler
Adler tricks Sherlock into decoding sensitive information on her camera phone. After breaking the code in four seconds that a cryptographer struggled with and eventually gave up on, Adler feeds Sherlock’s ego.
Irene Adler: “I would have you, right here on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice.”
Sherlock Holmes: “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”
Irene Adler: “Twice.”
She then follows up on all her sexual attentions toward Sherlock by sending the decrypted code to a terrorist cell. She reveals to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes that she’d played them both and consulted with Sherlock’s arch enemy Jim Moriarty to do so. It turns out, she was playing a deep game, exerting endless patience in her long con with blackmail as her goal all along. She demands such a sizeable sum for the code to her valuable camera phone that it would “blow a hole in the wealth of the nation.”
At this point, Irene Adler has won. She’s literally and figuratively beaten Sherlock Holmes repeatedly at his games of deduction and intrigue. She’s planned for and obviated every contingency. Adler is the only woman to arouse Sherlock’s sexual and intellectual interest all because she proved to be better than him. Adler masterfully manipulates the emotions of a man who cannot understand how and why people feel, a man who seems incapable of anything but his own selfish pursuits. Her problematic confessions of interest in Sherlock despite her sexual orientation are negated in light of her schemes.
Unfortunately, this is where it all goes to shit.
Just as Mycroft is giving his begrudging praise of Adler’s plot (“the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees”), Sherlock reveals that he took Adler’s pulse and observed her dilated pupils when interacting with him. He deduces her base sentiment has influenced her into making the passcode more than random, into making it, instead, “the key to her heart.”
Sherlocked…get it? Get it? Snore.
With that simple, inane phrase, Adler is undone. Sherlock has broken into her hard drive and her heart. Depicting a lesbian character truly falling in love with a man is a complete invalidation of her sexual identity. Not only that, but it has larger implications that are damaging and regressive. It advances the notion that lesbians are a myth, that all women can fall in love with men if given the right circumstances.
Having a female opponent who is more cunning than Sherlock ultimately lose due to her emotions also implies that women are incapable of keeping their emotions in check. Sherlock insists that her “sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” While he can detach from his emotions, she cannot, and thus he will always be better than her at the so-called game. Not only that, but this emotion versus reason dichotomy further reinforces the destructive gender binary that assigns certain traits to men and others to women, giving privilege to those assigned to men. Even Adler’s seductiveness, her cunning, her manipulation of the Holmes brothers, these characteristics are coded as female. Adler even enlists the aid of the male Jim Moriarty with the implicit reasoning that he is smarter, slicker, and more capable of handling the Holmes brothers.
Irene Adler must make her way in the world as a sex worker who deals in secrets. (Remind you of Miss Scarlet from Clue at all?) Capitalizing on sex and thriving on the power dynamics inherent in sex (especially heterosexual sex, in which we know Adler engages) are attributes generally assigned to women even though they are fabrications. Having to engage in sexual activity for money does not give women power. It, instead, forces women to exploit themselves and conform to a regulated form of femininity as well as other people’s sexual desires and fantasies (regardless of what the woman herself wants, likes, or doesn’t like). Considering the appalling number of rapes each year, each day, each hour, we also know that power dynamics (from a hetero standpoint) don’t truly favor women. Though the episode doesn’t get into it, presumably Adler is finally cashing in on all her secrets in order to make a better life for herself, a life in which she does not have to sell her body to survive.
When Sherlock outwits Adler, he forces the dominatrix to beg for her life, which is worth little without her secrets. Though he feigns indifference, he ends up finding her after she’s gone into hiding and been captured by terrorists in Karachi. He then saves her from a beheading and falsifies her death in a completely untraceable way.
It’s poignant that Sherlock holds the sword over Adler’s neck, choosing whether she lives or dies.
At the end of the episode, Sherlock stands before a window chuckling to himself about how handily he settled the whole scandal with The Woman. He doesn’t only best her at their game of wit, but he debases and de-claws her. Divesting her of all her power, all her secrets, Irene Adler is completely at his mercy and must be rescued like a damsel in distress or, worse, like a naughty little girl who’s gotten in over her head and must be dug out by her patriarch.
Despite the frequent declaration that “things are better for women now,” it’s hard to ignore that a story written in 1891 created a larger space for a woman to be strong, smart, and to escape. It’s also hard to ignore that Sherlock doesn’t just outwit Adler, he systematically dismantles all her power and only then does he graciously allow her to live. We can wish the last ten minutes of the episode had been cut, allowing for an ending in keeping with the original story, an ending that empowered a woman as one of Sherlock’s most formidable foes. A potentially more fruitful wish would be that Irene Adler returns in future seasons, stronger and more prepared to play the game against Sherlock Holmes, a game we can only hope she will win the next time around.
———-
Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.

The Sex Worker and The Corporate Raider: Dissecting ‘Pretty Woman’

‘Pretty Woman’ depicts a world where everyone is either a card-carrying member of the corporate caste or an obliging subordinate whose primary purpose in life is to serve, drive or blow members of that caste. It is obsessed with things and encourages the audience to share its obsession with things. These include Lotus cars, jets and jewelry. It also sells the City of Angels, of course. Rodeo Drive is one of the stars of the show. In fact, the whole movie is pretty much an extended Visit California commercial.

Pretty Woman (1990)
Pretty Woman (1990)

 

Garry Marshall’s romantic comedy, Pretty Woman, is one of the most popular American movies of all time. A box office success when it was released in 1990, it still rates highly in those Greatest Romantic Comedy lists. Audiences all around the world have embraced Pretty Woman’s buoyant tone, pop soundtrack, Hollywood setting, and fairy-tale love story. The lovers, Edward Lewis and Vivian Ward, make an unlikely couple, of course. He is a wildly successful businessman and she is a hard-up street prostitute. The meet-cute takes place on Hollywood Boulevard. Both lovers have looks and personality, and both are portrayed as engaging and sympathetic. Julia Roberts and Richard Gere give winning movie star performances as the pair. The mass popularity of the love story is, no doubt, due, in great part, to the attractiveness of the stars and the appeal of the characters. Their love is, also, habitually read as perfectly romantic because it seems to transcend all differences.

This is not my Pretty Woman, though. The movie I recognize is a glossy yet insidious Hollywood product that seeks to convince viewers that street prostitutes are eternally radiant and movie star beautiful, and that their corporate clients are all gracious and movie star handsome. I’m not sure that there is a film out there that has sanitized and romanticized prostitution as much as Pretty Woman. The clear intention of the movie-makers is to drug and delude the audience. Music, beauty and fashion serve to seduce the viewer, and mask the fact that they are watching an impoverished street prostitute spend a week with an extremely wealthy man in his hotel room. In response to the question, “Isn’t it just a fairy tale?” we have to remind ourselves that there is no such thing as a meaningless fairy tale. Nor is there such a thing as an apolitical Hollywood film. Pretty Woman may be a fantasy but it’s a deeply sexist, consumerist fantasy.

Forever happy
Forever happy

 

Julia Roberts’s Vivian does not have the aura of a street prostitute. She is way too sunny and sugary. Although she initially comes across as a trifle feisty and seasoned, the impression does not last. For the most part, the character looks and behaves like an ingénue. Actually, you never even believe the wild child introduction. Vivian’s best friend, Kit de Luca (Laura San Giacomo), is portrayed as earthier and less attractive because Vivian’s essential wholesomeness and beaming beauty must stand out (This is the function of best friends in Hollywood films, of course). Vivian is, in fact, nothing less than a 90s reworking of two of the oldest stereotypes in cinema and literature: the “whore with a heart of gold” and “happy hooker”. Our heroine smiles, sings and laughs throughout the movie with excessive dedication.

It is Vivian’s good-hearted, unaffected ways that enchant Edward, of course. He is smitten by both her spark and beauty. There is, though, a deeply disquieting edge to Edward’s appreciation of Vivian. The makers of Pretty Woman have no problem infantilising their heroine and there is a child-woman aspect to her character. For Edward, it is a vital part of her charm. In one signature scene, we watch him move closer to Vivian to gaze at her laughing gleefully at I Love Lucy rerun on the TV. It is telling that Vivian’s family name is Ward. She is like Edward’s ward. He cares for, nurtures, protects and spoils her. The age difference is both acknowledged and overcome. The kind hotel manager (Hector Elizondo) and Vivian come to an agreement that she is Edward’s “niece” if any guest asks. The age gap is recognized but it is not understood as a major obstacle to true love. Pretty Woman is, therefore, yet another perpetrator of that old Hollywood gender age gap rule. Roberts is nearly 20 years younger than Gere and they basically play their ages. The older man-younger woman intergenerational relationship is normalized and naturalized, and the underlying archaic message is that that a heterosexual relationship can only work if the man is significantly older than the woman. Edward’s not a partner; he’s a patriarch.

At the opera
At the opera

 

Pretty Woman is both sleazy and conservative. The first shot we have of Vivian is actually of her ass and crotch. We see her turn over in bed in her underwear. As she is not with a client but in her own single bed, in the run-down apartment she shares with Kit, the shot is only intended for the audience. It is, perhaps, the most explicit one in the film as the sex and love-making scenes between Edward and Vivian are neither graphic nor intense. We subsequently see her evade the landlord- she can’t afford the rent- by taking the fire escape route. Soon, she will be on Hollywood Boulevard conversing with Kit. The audience does not spend a lot of time with Vivian on her home turf. It is understood as a dangerous, seedy place but it is not depicted with any real grit or insight. The body of a dead woman has been found in an alley way dumpster but this is soon forgotten. Although Vivian is dressed for business in thigh-high boots, she cuts an incongruous, glamorous presence. However, thanks to a lost millionaire in a Lotus Esprit, the good, pretty woman will be magically transported from those streets in fairy-tale, Pygmalion fashion.

Although Vivian is an endearing pretty woman, she does not conform to class-sanctioned feminine styles and behavior. Cue the most famous makeover in modern movie history. To the tune of Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman,” Vivian is appropriately dressed and groomed for Edward’s perfumed world. Pretty Woman, unsurprisingly, patronizes its heroine. In the early part of the movie, at least, Vivian is portrayed as a wide-eyed hick from Georgia who spits out chewing gum on the sidewalk and (accidentally) flings escargots around restaurants. Fortunately, Edward is there to guide her. Note that he doesn’t only introduce her to snail-eating but he also takes her to polo matches and concerts. One evening, courtesy of his private jet, he whisks her off to San Francisco for a performance of La Traviata. “The music’s very powerful,” he helpfully notes.

Learning how to eat
Learning how to eat

 

Which brings us to Pretty Woman’s unashamedly antiquated and classist portrayal of Edward. The corporate raider is portrayed as an extremely cultured and intelligent man. He loves the opera, plays the piano, and reads Shakespeare. Pretty Woman does not only have a hilariously Hollywood, and frankly philistine, idea of what constitutes a cultured person but it also suggests that America’s astronomically wealthy are exceptionally intelligent and cultured.  “You must be really smart, huh?” Vivian says to Edward, after he explains what he does for a living. This is one of the more mind-boggling messages of the movie.

Along with his tall and slender lover, Edward also embodies Pretty Woman’s lookist ethos. Handsome, self-assured and enormous successful, the businessman is seen as superior to other men. His lawyer (played by Jason Alexander), on the other hand, is a nasty, envious, little creep who attempts to rape Vivian at one point. True to the lookist philosophy of the movie, the scumbug character cannot be conventionally attractive or taller than our hero. In Garry Marshall’s fantasy Hollywood, beautiful equals good. But how good is Edward? The movie’s morality is, in fact, mystifying on many levels. Its hero doesn’t drink and or tolerate drug-taking but he has no problem with hiring out women or buying out companies.

The polo match
The polo match

 

Ideologically, Pretty Woman is a love song to consumerism and capitalism. Yes, Vivian gets to disparage Edward’s superficial, affluent social circle at the polo match: “No wonder why you came looking for me,” she observes sadly–and yes, Edward learns to temper his rapacious corporate ways under her gentle influence- he now wants to build stuff and not just deal in money- but this never destabilizes the system. In fact, the system is, arguably, made more secure through reform. Edward just realizes he shouldn’t be so much of a dick. Pretty Woman depicts a world where everyone is either a card-carrying member of the corporate caste or an obliging subordinate whose primary purpose in life is to serve, drive or blow members of that caste. It is obsessed with things and encourages the audience to share its obsession with things. These include Lotus cars, jets, and jewelry. It also sells the City of Angels, of course. Rodeo Drive is one of the stars of the show. In fact, the whole movie is pretty much an extended Visit California commercial. It does its job well, of course. It’s a sleek product. There are many cars, rooms, gowns and suits to admire. But it’s a sleek Hollywood product jam-packed with dazzling fictions and lies about everything under the sun.

Transformed
Transformed

 

The representation of gender and sexuality in Pretty Woman is equally seedy and reactionary. Prostitutes should be civilized and saved while young women should resign themselves to being sexually objectified. Vivian is, of course, portrayed as a deeply romantic being. When their week together is up, Edward offers to take her off the streets and set her up in an apartment. But Vivian refuses to be his mistress. “I want more…I want the fairy tale,” she says to Edward. We, the audience, are encouraged to see her as an all-American girl driven by the pursuit of happiness. But she is also, at the end of the day, a deeply conventional woman with very traditional aspirations. She gets the fairy tale, of course. But Pretty Woman’s not just a love story; it’s also about becoming the respectable partner of a businessmen. Vivian Ward may be a romantic, sympathetic figure but she is also a woman fated to marry well. They may have changed each other but Vivian is incorporated into Edward’s world. Her illicit sexuality must be contained. We see her appreciate Edward’s beauty in the quiet of the night, but we also see her take pleasure in expensive things that he has bought for her. There is a scene in Pretty Woman where we see Vivian go to back to a store on Rodeo Drive where she was previously snubbed and humiliated by snooty sales staff. Armed with gorgeous purchases and gorgeously attired, she reminds them of their “big mistake.” It’s intended as a crowd-cheering scene of course–we enjoy Vivian’s screw-you moment–but it also expresses an unquestioning acceptance of the Darwinian wealth equals power diktat. When she is finally saved by her prince at the end of the movie, Vivian vows that she will save Edward in return. Will she really be allowed to save him? Will she have a role of her own? Or will she just buy stuff on his credit card?

The gentleman and the raider
The gentleman and the raider

 

It would be hilarious if the whole enterprise was actually a send-up of sexual politics and consumerism. No such luck. There is not a whiff of subversion in Pretty Woman. Admire Julia and Richard’s beauty, and sing along to Orbison or Roxette, but never forget that it is one of the most misogynist, patriarchal, classist, consumerist, and lookist movies ever to come out of Hollywood.

 

‘Concussion’: When Queer Marriage in The Suburbs Isn’t Enough

Some clues for her motives are in the scenes between Abby and her spouse. They are affectionate and loving with each other, even when they’re alone, but the sex has gone out of their marriage. After a disastrous first encounter with an escort, we feel Abby’s ache of longing when a second “better” escort begins to touch her. Later we see Eleanor’s first client, a 23-year-old virgin, react to Eleanor’s touch in much the same way.

ConcussionHeader

How many distinctive, acclaimed films about queer women can be released in American theaters at the same time? If we extrapolate from the actions of film distributors in the past few months, the answer is apparently: only one. Concussion was named one of the top 20 films of the year by Slate’s Dana Stevens and was also named one of the top films of 2013 in Salon. Shortly after its premiere, at last year’s Sundance, The Weinstein Company acquired it for distribution. For most films that acquisition (and the later support from reviews in traditional media) would mean a national release, but the film had a very limited run in theaters this fall and never played a theater in my art-house-friendly city. The film is on Video On Demand, iTunes, and Google Play, but deserves much more attention than most films that never have a national theatrical run.

This film about a queer woman is, unlike Blue Is The Warmest Color, directed and written by a queer woman (Stacie Passon who is nominated for “Best First Feature” in the Independent Spirit Awards ), and in many aspects is the answer to those who dismissed Blue as a product of the male gaze. Instead of a teenage protagonist, the main character in Concussion, Abby (played by Robin Weigert: Andrew O’Hehir in Salon summed up her performance as “OMFG”), is a 40-something, stay-at-home Mom, married to another woman and living in the suburbs.

When her son accidentally hits her in the face with a baseball, we see the confusion and blood in the family car ride to the hospital, as she moans to no one in particular, “I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this.”

bruisedAbby

In the ER Abby says she is going back to work in the city (and that she really means it this time). Abby doesn’t need to work for money: her spouse, Kate, is a divorce attorney, kept busy by the dissatisfied wives in their social circle. We see the wives’ well-maintained bodies in slow motion, at the beginning of the film, in spin and yoga classes as David Bowie sings on the soundtrack, “Oh you pretty things…”

Passon knows this world well She lives in the town (Montclair) Abby does. She is married to a woman and has children, one of whom accidentally hit her in the face with a baseball. The parallels between her life and Abby’s may be why the character and setting seem so fully realized.

Abby for the most part blends in with her straight women friends but we see she’s different from them–and not just in her orientation. She reads books while she vacuums. When a friend is circulating a “new motherhood” survey for an article in a parenting magazine, Abby writes of dreams in which she sticks her then newborn son in the microwave–and other dreams in which she and her son are married. She writes, “My poor baby, I didn’t know whether to kill him, fuck him, or eat him.”

At times Abby’s queerness does separate her from the other women. When Abby mentions to her friend that one of the group of women they work out with is “cute,”  the friend (played by Janel Maloney) reproaches Abby, “She’s not a lesbian!”

Abby and the contractor in the loft
Abby and the contractor in the loft

Abby starts work with a contractor to refurbish a city loft. As they transform the apartment, she transforms too, first hiring women to have sex with her and then working out of the loft as a high-priced escort, “Eleanor,” whose clients are all women.

A woman character turning to sex work for reasons other than money is usually a male artist’s conceit, as in Luis Buñuel’s great Belle de Jour, which features stunning, beautifully dressed, doctor’s wife, Catherine Deneuve, working in a brothel while her handsome, attentive (but clueless) husband sees his patients. In women’s memoirs of sex work (like Michelle Tea’s Rent Girl) the money is the point of the work (as it is with most work).

A sex worker character whose clients are all women (when the vast majority of sex work clients are men) is also usually the creation of a straight male artist–and is usually a male character so the work avoids any explicit same-sex scenes.

Abby's second encounter with an escort
Abby’s second encounter with an escort

Perhaps because Concussion turns that last trope on its head (or perhaps because New York is a big city that can cater to many kinds of tastes) we accept the conceit of a woman over 40 seeing women clients (for $800 a session) every day. The queer women we see in sexual situations in Concussion are not cut from the same Playboy-ready cloth as the two women in Blue: one client is fat, another is an obvious real-life survivor of breast cancer and some of her clients, like Eleanor herself, are nowhere near their 20s anymore.

Robin Weigert doesn’t have a Barbie Doll face or a porn model’s body, but does have a passing resemblance to the young Ellen Barkin. Weigert exudes the same confidence and sexiness–reminding us those two qualities are often one and the same.

Concussion has a scene similar to one in Blue in which a straight man interrogates a queer woman about her sexuality. But because Abby is in her 40s, the mocking tone she takes with him is completely different from what we hear from the 20-something main character in Blue, Adele.

The female gaze?
The female gaze?

In Concussion are we seeing the female gaze? Well, we’re definitely seeing one woman’s gaze, that of Passon. The sex scenes in Concussion, unlike Blue, don’t seem like outtakes from an amateur porn video, but flow from the other nonsexual encounters in the film. (Concussion’s expert cinematographer is David Kruta.) We also don’t see full frontal nudity from any of the actresses, and although we see the bare breasts of some of Eleanor’s clients, we never see hers. Eleanor/ Abby is both a psychological and corporeal enigma to us.

Some clues for her motives are in the scenes between Abby and her spouse. They are affectionate and loving with each other, even when they’re alone, but the sex has gone out of their marriage. After a disastrous first encounter with an escort, we feel Abby’s ache of longing when a second “better” escort begins to touch her. Later we see Eleanor’s first client, a 23-year-old virgin, react to Eleanor’s touch in much the same way.

Abby and her spouse
Abby and her spouse

In the city we see Abby in punk rock t-shirts (vintage Blondie and the now-defunct C.B.G.B) and boyshort underwear and in the suburbs we see her fitting in with her friends in yoga pants and an expensive down-filled jacket. At a suburban dinner party the guests talk about their days hanging out in pre-gentrified downtown New York clubs, Squeezebox and The Limelight, and we realize yes, many of  the club kids of the 90s have become comfortable, suburban Moms and Dads.

The loft is decorated with posters for Louise Bourgeois and The Guerrilla Girls and has Diet For a New America on the bookshelf, distinct touches some of us in the audience recognize from our own living spaces. In the dialogue we hear echoes of conversations we too have had (or overheard) at parties: “I finally took the Myers-Briggs.” Writers of satire often seem to want their audience to hate the people, especially the women, they create (the Annette Bening character in American Beauty is just one example). Passon’s satire is much trickier–and kinder. She wants us to recognize these people. She wants us to recognize ourselves in them.

AbbyLaundry

The film Passon says inspired Concussion is from the 1970s: Jeanne Dielman.., (and is also written and directed by a queer woman, Chantal Akerman). In Concussion, as in Dielman, we see the first signs of the housewife/sex-worker protagonist starting to unravel when she fails to stick to her usual daily routine: Abby misses picking up the kids after school for the first time in six years. Unlike Dielman, Passon’s film captures the monotony of domestic tasks, but doesn’t ask the audience to endure that boredom themselves.

Although Concussion was made before queer marriage became legal in New Jersey, the film brings up some interesting questions about the queer community’s quest for “equality.” What if we become just as disenchanted with being soccer Moms as straight women sometimes do? What then? At the end Abby throws herself into a home renovation project, the way so many of our married friends, straight and queer do, and we marvel at the mystery of other people’s marriages, not just in the film, but all around us.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8Wg–Mh8YY ” autohide=”0″]

 

There’s More to Love in ‘Loverboy’ Than “Extra Anchovies”

Randy defines the male sex worker in ways that are diametrically opposed to more traditional depictions of female sex workers. He is not oppressed by his clients, controlled by a pimp, or violently threatened until the very end. Even then, such “threats” are delivered as a comedy of errors after a group of husbands discover their wives have been ordering a lot of pizza with “extra anchovies,” the code for Randy’s clandestine services. Thus, he enjoys a much more privileged kind of work as a casual summer gigolo than as a professional prostitute who is often trapped in such work for extended periods of time and trapped by dominating patriarchal forces.

Movie poster for Loverboy
Movie poster for Loverboy

 

This guest post by Kristina Fennelly appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

At first glance, the 1989 comedy Loverboy, directed by Joan Micklin Silver and starring Patrick Dempsey, may not seem a likely choice for inclusion in films specifically focused on sex workers.  After all, how could a seemingly trivial movie about a failing college student, a pizza parlor, and a group of rich yet unhappy California wives possibly inform and challenge dominant definitions of sex workers, traditional gender roles, and even heteronormativity?

Yet this film, largely derided in the late 1980s as “hopelessly tacky,” and “a pitiful waste,” speaks to these issues as it chronicles the maturation of college sophomore Randy Bodek (played by Dempsey).  The film makes the claim that the education Randy gains through his summer employment, both as a pizza delivery boy and as a gigolo, prepares him to return to college in the fall as a man: a man more serious about his academic goals, his professional future, and his long-sought-after girlfriend, Jenny.  Just as Randy gains a great deal of knowledge about himself, so, too, can viewers today gain a great deal of insight when analyzing this film through a feminist lens.

In the March 2008 issue of the journal Gender Issues, scholar Jeffrey Dennis gives voice to the often ignored and silent male sex workers in his article “Women are Victims, Men Make Choices: The Invisibility of Men and Boys in the Global Sex Trade.”  Dennis argues that the accounts of men and boys as sex workers have largely gone unnoticed, which seems ironic given Dennis’s observation that, “Male sex workers are easy to spot anywhere in the world…Yet they are almost completely ignored by social service agencies, administrative bodies, the mass media, and scholarship” (11-12).  Critically examining Randy’s profession as a sex worker in this film seeks to do the kind of intellectual and gender-conscious work that Dennis calls for: “a re-evaluation of scholarly preconceptions about male and female bodies, about objectification, about the inevitability of heterosexual identity and about the impossibility of same-sex desire.”

At the onset of the film, Randy concludes his sophomore year of college where he has failed, yet again, to make the grade.  In addition to failing at school, Randy has also failed in his relationship with his live-in girlfriend, Jenny.  When Randy returns home for the summer, he is admonished by his father, Joe, for his lack of any visible work ethic.  Thus Randy must pursue a job as a pizza delivery boy in order to earn $9,000 to pay for his own tuition.  While working for $4.80 an hour—a rate that Randy and his co-worker crassly describe as less than wages earned by “people who swim here from Mexico”—he realizes that his life of privilege as a young, white, middle-class male is not automatically guaranteed.  Gone is the financial protection from his parents, Joe and Diane.  Now he must venture forth on his own to earn the money.  His goals, at this point, are not based whatsoever in academic or professional ideals; rather, he wants to earn the money simply so he can return to college, recapture his girlfriend, and continue on with his “party hard” lifestyle.

Randy, having returned home from college, explains to his parents that he is failing at school
Randy, having returned home from college, explains to his parents that he is failing at school

 

One day, a chance encounter leads him to meet Alex Barnett (played by Barbara Carrera), a wealthy Italian businesswoman (presumably in her 40s) who owns a chain of high-end clothing stores.  Soon, Alex lavishes Randy with expensive clothes, allows him to drive her racy red sports car, and seduces him.  Randy is not a morally bankrupt character, however.  He quickly tells Alex that he is in love with Jenny, to which she replies: “I think I can handle it.”  She understands the arrangement before Randy does because she has established the parameters of such an arrangement.  At this point, the viewer cannot help but pity Randy’s naiveté and obvious lack of experience with an accomplished and mature adult; after all, his social circle in college has consisted primarily of party-driven peers with a similar penchant for goofing off.

Alex, however, shows him the kind of privileged lifestyle he is missing out on at making only $4.80 an hour. When she awakens him the following morning by dropping $100 bills on his pillow, he tries to refuse the payment by telling her, “Alex, I can’t.  It makes me feel…”  Though Randy does not explicitly give voice to his feelings in this scene, the audience can infer that he feels bought and paid for, much like a traditionally-defined prostitute.  He even acknowledges the quickness of the exchange when he says, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”  Their brief and fleeting affair is framed in more financially pragmatic terms by Alex who explains that if their roles were reversed and she needed the money, she knows he would give it to her.  “So what’s the difference?” she asks as she gets up to leave.  It is at this point in which the film seems to ask this exact question of its audience: What’s the difference between a male sex worker and a female sex worker?  What’s at stake for a “gigolo” versus a “prostitute,” even from a purely rhetorical analysis of those classifications?  Does sex work involve the same kind of possession, objectification, and violence for men as it does for women?

Randy, a pizza delivery boy, meets Alex, the owner of high-end clothing stores
Randy, a pizza delivery boy, meets Alex, the owner of high-end clothing stores

 

These questions do not go unexplored or entirely unanswered in the film.  Randy defines the male sex worker in ways that are diametrically opposed to more traditional depictions of female sex workers.  He is not oppressed by his clients, controlled by a pimp, or violently threatened until the very end.  Even then, such “threats” are delivered as a comedy of errors after a group of husbands discover their wives have been ordering a lot of pizza with “extra anchovies,” the code for Randy’s clandestine services.  Thus, he enjoys a much more privileged kind of work as a casual summer gigolo than as a professional prostitute who is often trapped in such work for extended periods of time and trapped by dominating patriarchal forces.

Randy, by contrast, appears to benefit greatly from his work as he grows attuned to romance and intimacy, cultured in ballroom dancing and photography, and refined in his ability to genuinely listen to women and their needs.  For example, he fulfills the fantasy of his Asian client, Kyoko Bruckner (played by Kim Miyori), whose husband has stereotypically assumed she, like “all” Asian women, will submit, remain silent, and above all, satisfy his every whim.  Randy also provides much-needed validation to Monica Delancy (played by Carrie Fisher), a photographer whose husband personally trains women with “Barbie doll”-type bodies.  Finally, he reminds the cynical doctor Joyce Palmer (played by Kirstie Alley) that romance still exists when he engages in an act perhaps even more intimate than sex: ballroom dancing.

Dr. Joyce Palmer (left) teaches Randy how to dance
Dr. Joyce Palmer (left) teaches Randy how to dance

 

As he seeks to explain his time with Alex to his horny co-worker, “That isn’t all we did.  We talked…,” he again tries to resist traditional definitions of sex workers as objects of pleasure.  Unlike heteronormative prostitution, which tends to rely on an exchange of sex for money and positions women as the object of men’s desire, the kind of “work” Randy finds himself doing requires him to be more of a companion than a lover, more of a listener than a performer, more of an adored “loverboy” than a mere sex object.

It is no accident that Randy’s first delivery of “extra anchovies” is to Alex (short for Alexandra), a woman with a name typically considered for boys.  She, in fact, assumes a traditionally masculine role as she—a powerful, successful, and rich businesswoman—pursues a partner for her own sexual satisfaction.  It should not surprise the discerning viewer that just as Alex showers Randy with expensive clothes, so does Edward Lewis (played by Richard Gere) provide prostitute Vivian Ward (played by Julia Roberts) with a new wardrobe in Pretty Woman, a popular film which proved a box-office hit the following year in 1990.  The inclusion of Randy’s improved clothes, combined with Alex’s more masculine name and behavior, are not incidental matters in this film.

In an effort to further the comedic effect of the movie, Randy’s first gift from Alex—a $500 sports coat—is delivered by his co-worker, Tony, who drops it off at Randy’s house after it arrives at the pizza shop.  Randy’s father, Joe, who has already told his wife, “Our son is a fruit,” reads the attached note from Alex and believes the coat is actually a gift from Tony, the presumed gay lover.  It is not a stretch to qualify his father’s comments as homophobic when he tells his wife Diane, “A guy shows up at our door wearing enough cologne to make me puke.”  After bemoaning the fact that Randy never talks about any girls, he tells himself, “You always think it happens to the other guy”—as if the reality of a gay son has now become an affliction, an “it” that one “always think[s]” (read as “always hopes”) will happen to, or pain, someone else.  Thus, not only is Randy atypical in his role as a male sex worker, but he is also cast as aberrant (especially in 1989 at the height of the AIDS crisis) in his presumed homosexuality.

Randy, unsurprisingly, is clueless about his father’s fears.  Instead, his primary concern is to improve his own identity, to transform himself from a part-time gigolo, defunct college student, and inconsiderate boyfriend into a mature student, respectable son, and loving boyfriend.  Inevitably, he must answer to Jenny, who shows up on the day of his parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary.  Ironically, it is on this same day that his mother places a pizza order for “extra anchovies” as revenge against her husband, whom she believes has cheated on her.  As Randy’s parents try to sort out their mistakes, Randy tries to explain to Jenny that he engaged in such work for the money so that he could return to college and ultimately return to her.  His actions prove unforgivable, at least initially.  Soon, though, Jenny comes to see Randy as a matured man willing to go to great lengths for love: not only for her love, but also to preserve the love between his two parents.  She is heartened and warmed by him and his parents who welcome her with open arms.  How could they not since they are so happy and grateful to have a heterosexual son?  All is forgiven when Randy promises to return the money, and Randy’s father even promises to pay for his tuition.

Randy's girlfriend, Jenny (right), is not forgiving of his work as a gigolo at first
Randy’s girlfriend, Jenny (right), is not forgiving of his work as a gigolo at first

 

If this film succeeds in doing the kind of work Dennis calls for, to acknowledge male sex workers largely ignored by “mass media,” does it fail in its treatment of homosexuality?  Does it insist on “the inevitability of heterosexual identity”?  Not entirely.  Before Jenny is identified as Randy’s girlfriend, Randy’s father embraces him and tells him: “You’re my son.  I love you.”  Certainly, this father-son relationship appears progressive for 1989, especially from where we sit 25 years later when gay marriage is one of the most contentious political and social issues of our time.  What’s most potent is the way in which the film anticipates Pretty Woman by framing sex work as a means to a financially and emotionally secure future…when we know it rarely fulfills such dreams.  Yet before we toss this movie aside as irrelevant, as “instantly forgettable…the kind of movie that’s perfect for a lazy summer afternoon,” it behooves us to acknowledge how this film can and should encourage conversations about male sex workers that have heretofore been silenced.

 


Kristina Fennelly is a Visiting Assistant Professor at Kutztown University in Kutztown, Pennsylvania.  Her research and teaching interests focus on composition and rhetoric, gender studies, and digital texts. 

Porno Moms and the Sexual Healing of Family in ‘Boogie Nights’

The vision of Eddie/Dirk’s home life at the beginning of the film shows us that no family is without its failures, and that true family and community bolsters individuals while forgiving and healing these flaws. The film is progressive in its inclusivity (of male, female, and queer characters), and specifically in its treatment of Amber as she constructs her own version of motherhood and family, for better or worse.

This guest post by Rebecca Willoughby appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

In Brian McNair’s recent book, Porno? Chic!: How Pornography Changed the World and Made it a Better Place (Routledge), he notes that navigating what he calls the “pornosphere” of contemporary culture is made more difficult by the fact that porn is still, in spite of all kinds of liberating cultural changes, a bit of a taboo.  One of McNair’s laments is that we can’t all just admit that porn exists, that we might have even seen or used it in our own lives/sex lives, and why we can’t talk openly about it as we would any other cultural issue.  Boogie Nights (1997)  pushes at the boundaries of this taboo by exposing the lives of sex workers—they refer to themselves as actors—within the porno-film industry in the late 1970s and early 80s.  It does so, at least on the surface, without making many judgments about the characters, lending the narrative a layer of realism that helps to dispel any ideas of glamour we might have about being “porn-stars,” and attempting to depict the “real life” of these sex workers in their natural habitat.

While the main body of the narrative is primarily concerned with the story of Eddie Adams, a.k.a. Dirk Diggler (come up with your own porno name here), there’s another story being told here: that of motherhood and family functioning within the context of the porn industry.  Our perception of sex workers is typically fraught with concerns about the circumstances that bring about sex work: is this work voluntary?  Is it fair? Safe? But add to those concerns the idea of mothers, parents, and children in sex work, and a whole different set of concerns surface.  Parent-child relationships in Boogie Nights are varied, but none of them initially seem to be entirely positive or negative.  Just what is this film attempting to say about family, and, about families that work in sex?

Our first encounter with the sex-worker family is a Goodfellas  or Fight Club-esque shot that follows porno film director Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds) and his… co-worker? live-in? girlfriend? Amber Waves (Julianne Moore) as they navigate through a nightclub. It might be worth noting that these other films also depict non-traditional, somewhat subversive, somewhat familial groups: the mob, and an underground boxing ring, respectively.  It might also be worth noting that both of these groups are almost entirely comprised of men, while the underground or subversive element in Boogie Nights contains men and women, and some variety in sexual orientation as well.  The nature of Jack and Amber’s relationship is foggy: she lives in his sprawling house, he calls her “honey tits,” and she is the star of most of his films, but we never see much more intimacy between them than a peck on the cheek.  We get a much clearer view of Amber and Jack’s archetypal roles once Eddie (Mark Wahlberg) enters the “scene.”

Eddie is an economically disadvantaged sort, not too bright, and suffering in a home life that features a submissive father and an alcoholic mother.  In one of the film’s most painful scenes, Eddie’s mom (Joanna Gleason) tells him he’s stupid, that his girlfriend is a slut, and that he’ll never amount to anything—all in a hyper-aggressive, booze-filled rage when he comes home late one night.  Clearly this is not stellar parenting, but it’s also Eddie’s mother viewers are encouraged to dislike, whereas Dad gets our sympathy.  Eddie’s is very clearly a broken family.  His mom ignores and even vehemently derides his vague ambition to be “a bright, shining star,” effectively driving him from his home and into Jack’s palatial porn-estate, where he is valued—albeit at least partially for the material gain he will bring to Jack’s films. Whether Eddie’s mom’s anger at her son is fueled by her drinking, or by his seemingly casual disregard for advancing himself in some traditional way (such as education rather than low-wage employment in his two jobs) is unclear.

What Eddie’s mother doesn’t know, however, is that his sex work is far more lucrative than his traditional work, even at the early stages of the film: he’s likely earning more each night in various sexual postures (“if you want to see me jack off, it’s ten [dollars], but if you just want to look at it, it’s five,” he tells Jack on their first meeting) than he is from his dishwasher or car-wash gig.  He’s ostensibly taken a job far from his home in order to make this extra money in a more metropolitan place where he is not as well-known, rather than in his hometown.  This means Eddie is already participating in the obfuscation of his sex work, acting as if it is something to be ashamed of.  He’s already been conditioned by cultural mores, in spite of his assertion to his girlfriend that “everyone is given one special thing,” and he knows his “special thing” to be his large penis and his skill at sex.  Jack tells Eddie that there is “gold” in Eddie’s jeans, and this jives with Eddie’s view of himself, a dynamic which casts Jack as the supportive and strong father that has been missing from Eddie’s life thus far.

To further facilitate Eddie’s transition into the world of adult film, the mother who will accept Eddie/Dirk as a whole person appears in Amber Waves.  Even early on, the camera singles out Amber as she gazes on Dirk, a replacement (we later learn) for her own lost son, whom viewers never see.  This original son is lost seemingly because of Amber’s “choice” to work in pornographic films, though viewers are never privy to her reasons for choosing this profession (or whether it was a choice at all).  Her husband’s refusal to allow her to see her son because of the “environment” he might be exposed to is emblematic of the broad cultural attitudes toward Amber’s work.  Amber’s strong maternal drive is therefore shifted from her own child, taken from her, to the younger actors in her company: Dirk and Rollergirl (Heather Graham).  Later in the film, Rollergirl begs Amber in a cocaine-induced frenzy: “say you’ll be my mom.”  She, too, is a lost child.  Amber is portrayed as a sort of lost mother, and she willingly pledges to act as Rollergirl’s surrogate parent.  But oh yeah… all these parents and children and subsequent by-proxy siblings have sex with each other while “father-figure” Jack runs the cameras.  Not your typical family, for sure.

Amber, gazing on her "lonely boy"
Amber, gazing on her “lonely boy”

 

Language in consumer reviews of the film graphically illustrate the mainstream response to Amber’s work and lifestyle, calling her (among other things) a “coked-up porn queen.” Such labels fail to take into account that drug use is perhaps not expressly part of the work but rather an occupational hazard linked to the porno subculture depicted in the film.  These epithets also function to support the normative view of sex work as either forced labor or poor decision-making, perhaps the result of impaired judgment.  What is erased in these generalizations is that Amber’s career is just that: a career.  She makes money, as does Dirk and pretty much everyone depicted living and working in the porno world.  Sex is their job, and if viewers are to draw any conclusions from what they see, they are successful.  They may not make the best decisions about what to do with that success (a lot of it goes up their noses), but the film also shows us that characters who DO try to make good decisions are stymied by a culture that vilifies their work.  Buck, another actor in Jack’s pornographic films, is denied a loan he clearly qualifies for, intended to help him to open his own business and leave the porno life to build a more traditional life with his more traditional family.  The reason for this denial is identified as Buck’s status (according to the bank officials) as a “pornographer.” So while Amber, Dirk, and other characters move freely within the world of adult film, Boogie Nights makes it clear that mainstream society has passed judgment.

Perhaps to their credit, Jack and Dirk never attempt to be anything other than a porno director and a porno actor.  Both men are good at their jobs, so why try to change? The film shows Dirk traversing the difficult landscape of addiction and emerging on the other side to return to sex work; the work he’s found success in.  Jack supports not only actors by continuing his business, but also a cache of film crew folks.  It’s not immediately evident how many families his work provides for. More significantly, the end of the film finds Amber continuing to act as mother to Dirk and Rollergirl, thereby embodying BOTH the sex worker role that brings her material success, as well as satisfying her maternal instincts. In spite of how mainstream culture may view sex work, Amber is treated fairly, and her physical AND emotional needs are being met.  Her family—this group of people not directly related to her, but who care about her and support her goals—has sustained her.

Dirk, Amber, and family
Dirk, Amber, and family

 

The grace of Boogie Nights is that it allows viewers to be aware of the tribulations of sex work as WORK—these workers navigate particular pitfalls of their employment and industry, just as other workers do.  The film illustrates the hazards of working in porn, just as another narrative might illustrate the hazards of working in management or finance or data entry (see, perhaps, Office Space (1999)? Doing a job well does not always guarantee happiness.  Life does not always treat workers fairly.  Even with success, people want things that they can’t have.  But in Boogie Nights, sex workers are shown to have their own community, as flawed as that family structure might be.  The vision of Eddie/Dirk’s home life at the beginning of the film shows us that no family is without its failures, and that true family and community bolsters individuals while forgiving and healing these flaws.  The film is progressive in its inclusivity (of male, female, and queer characters), and specifically in its treatment of Amber as she constructs her own version of motherhood and family, for better or worse.  Boogie Nights ends with another tracking shot to bookend the first, this time following Jack through his house as he interacts with his “family”: bantering with Maurice, a club owner, who is cooking in the kitchen; telling Rollergirl to clean her room; visiting with former porn actor Jessie and her baby, who are poolside.  It’s difficult to ignore the domesticity in this sequence.  This family has supported each other through some very tough times over the course of the film.  Whether viewers accept or reject working in pornography as a career in Boogie Nights seems beside the point—these characters are on a journey, and they are surrounded by the ones they love.

 


Rebecca Willoughby holds a Ph.D. in English and Film Studies from Lehigh University.  She writes most frequently on horror films and melodrama, and is currently a lecturer in Film/Media Studies at Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.

 

 

Beyond the Mainstream: How Indie Films See Sex Workers

‘Welcome to the Rileys’ and ‘Starlet’ are not flawless examples of how to depict sex workers in film, but they are a step in the right direction. With Hollywood’s repetitive use of sex workers as one-dimensional cardboard cut-outs with a single purpose, the indie genre often gives sex workers, both supporting characters and protagonists, expressed thoughts and feelings, making them fleshed out and human.

This guest post by Nicole Elwell appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

It’s no secret that Hollywood has issues with accurate representations of the daily life it tries to capture. Society is a film’s subject and audience, but that fact doesn’t always guarantee accuracy. It’s also no secret that certain aspects of society are captured more often and more thoroughly than others, creating a majority that’s up on screen and a minority that shakes their heads from their theater seats. Representation isn’t just about numbers and how often one gets screen time, but it also concerns the details of that screen time. In the case of representation of women in Hollywood, it’s not always the quantity but rather the quality. A film could have numerous female characters on screen and still create a qualitative representation issue.

This ties in with how Hollywood often portrays female sex workers. They exceed in quantity and fail in quality. Despite my lack of knowledge for all Hollywood films that depict sex workers and of actual experiences of a sex worker in modern American society, it’s easy to question and criticize the repetitive formula most sex workers are expected to exist under: be untrustworthy, manipulative, grotesque, or perhaps–worst of all–simply nothing. Most sex workers are written to be as impactful to the story as an out-of-focus desk lamp. They may appear for a single moment, create obstacles for the protagonist, or function as décor or pure entertainment for other characters. If they do serve a greater purpose to the story, it’s usually to flesh out the protagonist or motivate them in some way. With these limits as to what a sex worker can be in Hollywood, one can wonder if this serves as a subtle way of telling society this is how we should view sex workers in general. After all, society is a film’s subject and audience.

The independent film industry is often seen as the antithesis of Hollywood: with no major studios to answer to, the ever-present concern of profit is not always the motivation behind a film’s production. But does the indie genre really use its freedom to break barriers and create a more accurate picture of otherwise inaccurate and potentially damaging stereotypes? Well, yes and no. The independent industry is far from a haven of precise and meaningful stories, but considering that how good an indie film is will usually determine how many people see it, most truly terrible indie films stay buried. Much like Hollywood, the indie genre’s relationship with sex workers is hit or miss. With a far greater number of hits, the indie genre at times feels like the best hope for better representation of sex workers in film.

The film Welcome to the Rileys follows Doug Riley, a man distraught with martial problems and grief over the death of his daughter eight years ago. On a business trip to New Orleans, Doug befriends a prostitute named Mallory and finds new meaning in his life and a surrogate daughter through his growing friendship with her.

James Gandolfini and Kristen Stewart in Welcome to the Rileys
James Gandolfini and Kristen Stewart in Welcome to the Rileys

 

Doug’s wife eventually comes to New Orleans and sees the same opportunities in Mallory, so they all begin to live together. Despite the Rileys’ offers to help Mallory leave her life of prostitution, she repeatedly refuses and, fed up with the lack of acceptance, runs away only to be arrested and bailed out by Doug. The two have a confrontation, and Mallory asserts that she’s “not somebody’s little girl. It’s too late for that.” Doug comes to accept this and heads back home with his wife. This film could have easily been yet another example of how sex workers are catalysts for a male protagonist’s development, and for a large part of the movie that is the case. With Mallory’s refusal to submit to this cliché, the film becomes a hit rather than a miss because it dismisses the same formula that it used for the majority of the movie, while also giving Mallory her own character and declaring that prostitution is not something all women are looking to be saved from.

The film Starlet (available to stream on Netflix) follows the unique and charmingly awkward friendship between 21-year-old Jane and 85-year-old Sadie. After crossing paths with Sadie at a garage sale, Jane becomes increasingly interested in Sadie’s life, mostly to escape the constant drugs and apathy that fills her own. The majority of the film focuses on forming their bond while also exemplifying a generation gap that makes the friendship both refreshing and difficult.

Dree Hemingway and Besedka Johnson in Starlet
Dree Hemingway and Besedka Johnson in Starlet

 

About 50 minutes into the film, the suspicious daily lives of Jane and her friends are brought to life: they are all a part of the porn industry. What Starlet does right is holding off the fact that Jane does porn. Rather, the film makes sure the audience understands that above all else, Jane is a person and shouldn’t be defined by her job. The film establishes raw character before anything else, which serves to not only dismiss multiple stereotypes associated with sex workers in film, but also establish the notion that sex workers are not defined by their professions. The film doesn’t judge or punish Jane, and in its execution encourages its audience to the same. Starlet is an innovative rejection of society’s obsession with careers by asserting that profession doesn’t trump character.

Welcome to the Rileys and Starlet are not flawless examples of how to depict sex workers in film, but they are a step in the right direction. With Hollywood’s repetitive use of sex workers as one-dimensional cardboard cut-outs with a single purpose, the indie genre often gives sex workers, both supporting characters and protagonists, expressed thoughts and feelings, making them fleshed out and human. With the ever-changing and diverse nature of humans, it’s virtually impossible to ever capture a perfect and flawless representation of any type of person, but Hollywood could learn a thing or two about representation from the independent film industry.

 


Nicole Elwell is a sophomore at the University of Baltimore, majoring in Psychology and minoring in Pop Culture. She hopes to bring psychology and feminism into a future career in writing for the movies.

 

‘For a Good Time, Call …’: A Modern Rom Com About Friendship

But ‘For a Good Time, Call…’ doesn’t think of itself as better than other films with sex workers as their protagonists, with Lauren using Katie’s virginity against her as a metaphor for her insecurity when they have their first major fight, a prevalent attitude that buys into virgins being lesser versions of sex-having humans. As Vivian in ‘Pretty Woman’ resents Edward for making her “feel cheap,” Lauren’s treatment of her housemate brings up feelings of worthlessness for Katie. “You make me feel like I’ll never be good enough for you,” she cries. It seems we can’t win either way: women are slut- and prude-shamed no matter our real or perceived bedroom habits.

Ari Graynor, Justin Long, and Lauren Miller in For a Good Time, Call ...
Ari Graynor, Justin Long, and Lauren Miller in For a Good Time, Call …

 

This cross-post by Scarlett Harris was previously published at Filmme Fatales and appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

Sex workers get a bum rap in most aspects of society. In April 2013, publisher Mia Freedman and author of The Secret Diary of a Call Girl, Brooke Magnanti, butted heads about the use of the word “prostitute” and whether it’s a valid career choice for our daughters on Aussie talk show Q&A; the murder of sex worker Tracy Connelly in Melbourne in July sparked protestations as to why her death wasn’t given as much attention as, say, white, middle-class Irish immigrant beauty Jill Meagher’s, also occurring in Melbourne; and we still stigmatise the exchange of sex for money despite it being one of the oldest occupations in the world and, to my mind, a necessary one.

Many pop cultural representations of sex workers tend to play into the notions that they need to be “saved” or are less than: Leaving Las Vegas, Lovelace, Pretty Woman. One that shines a refreshingly progressive and nonchalant light on sex work is 2012’s For a Good Time, Call…starring Ari Graynor and Lauren Miller (who also cowrote the effort).

College enemies Katie (Graynor) and Lauren (Miller) are forced to move in together by their mutual gay bestie, Jesse (played by Justin Long), after a series of unfortunate events sees neither one being able to afford to live alone in the Big Apple. When Lauren discovers Katie pays the bills by working for a phone sex line, she decides to help her make it into a viable small business, and before long Lauren’s in on it, too.

Lauren Miller in For a Good Time, Call ...
Lauren Miller in For a Good Time, Call …

 

While the roommates and their friends don’t bat an eyelid at their supposedly sordid occupation—Jesse wants to be involved, Katie meets her sweet, unassuming boyfriend via the hotline, and a prospective employer of Lauren’s applauds her for her newfound laidback demeanor—not everyone is so impressed. Lauren’s WASPy parents are mortified she ditched (read: was fired from) her long-time publishing gig in order to “listen to guys jack off,” as her father puts it.

Not to stoop to their level, but phone sex is probably the most banal of all possible sex work avenues to go down (pardon the pun!); big bucks can be made from any location without mandatory sex or nudity. Talk about a low-risk, high return investment! If anything, Lauren’s parents should be proud of their daughter’s entrepreneurial skills and her ability to turn a profit in a hostile economy, not slut-shaming her based on very little information. (Granted, the dildos on the coffee table and the g-string bunting strewn across the lounge room as the revelation is made probably don’t lend themselves to acceptance.)

If they looked beneath the surface they’d see that Lauren’s sexy, loudmouthed pole-dancing roommate who once peed in their daughter’s car (“It was a graduation present!”) has actually never had sex. And that the seemingly successful career woman was unhappy in her “boring,” passionless relationship and uninspiring publishing gig. The differences that once saw Lauren and Katie clash in college now bring them closer together in an alternate version of the heteronormative rom-com, where female friendship reigns supreme. Quite a contrast from the hooker sex-worker-with-a-heart-of-gold-who-needs-saving-by/from-a-man trope of the above mentioned Pretty Woman, Lovelace, etc.

For a Good Time, Call ...
For a Good Time, Call …

 

But For a Good Time, Call… doesn’t think of itself as better than other films with sex workers as their protagonists, with Lauren using Katie’s virginity against her as a metaphor for her insecurity when they have their first major fight, a prevalent attitude that buys into virgins being lesser versions of sex-having humans. As Vivian in Pretty Woman resents Edward for making her “feel cheap,” Lauren’s treatment of her housemate brings up feelings of worthlessness for Katie. “You make me feel like I’ll never be good enough for you,” she cries. It seems we can’t win either way: women are slut- and prude-shamed no matter our real or perceived bedroom habits.

Above all, For a Good Time, Call… is a rom com about best friends; screw the menz. Unlike in the above mentioned sex worker movie cache, men are not the moral of this love story.

 


Scarlett Harris is a Melbourne, Australia-based freelance writer and blogger at The Early Bird Catches the Worm (soon to be undergoing a revamp; stay tuned!).

 

Call for Writers: Representations of Sex Workers

Too often, sex work and sex workers on screen aren’t represented three-dimensionally. Media representation is a mirror to our own cultural attitudes and norms, and we’d like to use this theme week to explore and analyze the good, the bad, and the dangerous of representations of sex workers in film and television.

Call-for-Writers

 

Our first Theme Week for 2014 will be Representations of Sex Workers.

Feminism has a complicated relationship with sex work. Even the most sex-positive sometimes stop short at embracing voluntary sex work as a (potentially) sex-positive, feminist venture. Subjectifying female sexuality–from recent SlutWalks through generations of fighting for reproductive choice–is a cornerstone of feminist activism, but how do we respond to sex work, which is maligned and complicated? How can we draw clear lines between voluntary and involuntary sex work, and listen to and hear stories from sex workers themselves? And how do film and television represent sex workers?

In a recent Salon article (which is an excerpt from the author’s book), “Ethical sluts and ‘dirty whores’: Straight talk about sex work,” Melinda Chateauvert says that even though feminists have reclaimed “sluttiness,” we still struggle with sex work:

Whorephobia remains pervasive in the social psyche, showing its ugliness even in sex-positive communities. The positive emphasis on sex work confuses “straights” into thinking that sex work is about sex, not work. That cognitive dissonance — the deep chasm filled with stereotypes and prejudices — interferes with the capacity of civilians to hear sex workers speak about their experiences. Stories that don’t conform to the “superhappyfunsexysexwork!” narrative tend to flummox pro-sex feminists; they can identify with privileged exotic dancers, porn performers and professional dominants (even fantasize about being one), but think “junkie whores” need to be rescued and should be prevented from working in their gentrifying neighborhoods. Such disrespectful treatment leads to silencing, ignoring, or rewriting what sex workers have to say.

Too often, sex work and sex workers on screen aren’t represented three-dimensionally. Media representation is a mirror to our own cultural attitudes and norms, and we’d like to use this theme week to explore and analyze the good, the bad, and the dangerous of representations of sex workers in film and television.

(For more reading on the topic, see this Ms. article and this wonderful round-up of articles at POSTWHOREAMERICA and check out the conversation on Twitter at #notyourrescueproject. For commentary/ideas about sex work on film, see this Alternet article and links from the London Sex Worker Film Festival.)

We’d like to avoid as much overlap as possible for this theme, so get your proposals in early if you know who or what you would like to write about. We accept both original pieces and cross-posts, and we respond to queries within a week.

Most of our pieces are between 1,000 and 2,000 words, and include links and images. Please send your piece as a Microsoft Word document to btchflcks[at]gmail[dot]com, including links to all images, and include a 2- to 3-sentence bio.

If you have written for us before, please indicate that in your proposal, and if not, send a writing sample if possible.

Please be familiar with our publication and look over recent and popular posts to get an idea of Bitch Flicks’ style and purpose. We encourage writers to use our search function to see if your topic has been written about before, and link when appropriate (hyperlinks to sources are welcome, as well).

The final due date for these submissions is Friday, Jan. 24 by midnight.

 

A sampling of films/shows that highlight sex workers:

Pretty Baby

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas

Working Girls

Mighty Aphrodite

Showgirls

Sweet Charity

Klute

Gunsmoke

Taxi Driver

Leaving Las Vegas

Midnight Cowboy

The Owl and the Pussycat

My Own Private Idaho

Risky Business

Moulin Rouge

Mysterious Skin

Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo

Reno 911

The Girlfriend Experience

Hung

Butterfield 8

Kansas City

Last Exit to Brooklyn

Irma La Douce

Claire Dolan

Elmer Gantry

McCabe & Mrs. Miller

Nathalie

Priceless (Hors de prix)

Pretty Woman

Breakfast at Tiffany’s

The Center of the World

Lost Highway

Inland Empire

Profane

A Kiss for Gabriela

The Client List

American Gigolo

The Man from Elysian Fields

Call Me: The Rise and Fall of Heidi Fleiss

Boogie Nights

Magic Mike

Porn Star: The Legend of Ron Jeremy

Vidiyum Munn