“A Bit Of An Evolution”: On Louis C.K.

It’s exhausting to consume any media as a trans* person. It’s not really a matter of if I will become a punchline, but when. This goes triple or quadruple for comedy, and Louis C.K., for all his good qualities, is no exception.

Written by Max Thornton as part of our theme week on Male Feminists and Allies.

It’s exhausting to consume any media as a trans* person. It’s not really a matter of if I will become a punchline, but when. This goes triple or quadruple for comedy, and Louis C.K., for all his good qualities, is no exception.

Louis C.K. is a very funny guy, and for a white straight cis man he is often a great ally. The webpage www.arewhitepeopleraciallyoppressed.com uses one of his bits as its only explanation for its giant, bolded, all-caps “NO!” He’s pretty excellent at using his tragicomic sensibility to draw attention to inequalities in a way that might make other white straight cis men think as well as laugh. But he still has a ways to go, and I hope that he will learn and improve.

Louis CK on a rare happy day
Louis C.K. on a rare happy day

What’s interesting about being a fan of Louis C.K. is that he does learn and change, and we have watched him evolve his understanding of some things. His 2008 album Chewed Up opens with a tiresome bit about “Offensive Words,” which surely must have seemed as embarrassing five years ago as it does now:

Faggot. I miss that word… Faggot didn’t mean gay when I was a kid. You called someone faggot because they were being a faggot, you know? Someone was just being a faggot. … But if one of them took the dick out of his mouth and was being all faggy and saying annoying faggy things like, ‘People from Phoenix are called Phoenicians,’ I’d be like, ‘Hey, shut up, faggot! FAGGOT! Quit being a faggot and suck that dick.’

 As we used to say when I was a kid, it’s so funny I forgot to laugh.

I’m pretty sure this bit is still being used by douchebros to justify their bigotry, but hopefully at least some of those douchebros have seen the poker scene from a 2010 episode of C.K.’s semi-autobiographical FX sitcom Louie. In this scene, the Louis C.K. character and a group of his comedian friends discuss homosexuality with their one gay friend, who winds up steering the conversation in quite a serious direction. C.K. has explained that this scene was intentional redress for his casual excusing of slurs in the past. “What does it do to a gay man when I say the word ‘faggot’?” was not merely a rhetorical exercise, but a question he raised with a gay friend and thought about deeply in the writing of the poker scene. C.K. says, “I think that the discussion of the word faggot that I did in the poker scene was a bit of an evolution. I pretty much never say faggot on stage anymore.”

His mea culpa over last year’s Rapeocalypse debacle – an incident (don’t they seem to be almost weekly these days?) where an unfunny comedian’s rape “joke” sparked a raging internet debate about comedy and offensiveness – also proves that he can learn from his mistakes, to the point that he now actively tweets against offensive jokes.

louis-ck-tweet
Has anyone tried this? Does it work?

Louis C.K. makes me laugh a lot, and he says some really on-the-ball things about a lot of subjects (“two guys are in love and they can’t get married because you don’t want to talk to your ugly child for five fucking minutes??”), but watching his sets or his show still makes me clench in the pit of my stomach.

It’s not that his material on gender relations is uniformly bad. Some of it is excellent, and some of it is downright feminist. The trouble is, he does it in a really essentialist way. Men and women are defined as poles of a biologically determined binary. And he talks about men as though we’re utterly captive to our hormones. Sometimes it almost sounds as if he’s saying, “Men have treated women really poorly for millennia, because biology.” Testosterone, contra certain trans men who will tell you otherwise, is not a misogyny potion. Neither (although I don’t have personal experience with this) is a Y chromosome.

Obviously I don’t mean to say that we shouldn’t talk about relationships between men and women. It’s hugely important to recognize and challenge the ways in which gendered oppression and violence are performed specifically by men against women; but we need to do this in a way that acknowledges that these categories are imperfect and fluid and not immutably predestined or tied to biology.

C.K. is pretty solid on that first part, but he’s still not mastered the second. And it’s frustrating because he’s so clearly someone who’s spent time engaging with other intersections of oppression, especially race and sexuality, and it’s made him a better person, a better comedian, and a better artiste; so I wish he’d bother to do the same with trans* concerns.

I do worry that Louis C.K. is too much the leftist darling who can get away with anything. On the one hand, it’s not unreasonable to laud people when they learn and change for the better; on the other, fawning over straight white cis dudes for showing the slightest modicum of basic human decency is pretty gross. It’s hard to balance the discourse in response to allies, but at least we know this one is thoughtful and self-aware. If we hold Louis C.K. accountable for his failings, we can generally expect that he’ll listen and learn, and that’s perhaps the most important quality in an ally.

louis-ck-pain-chart

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

Wedding Week: ‘Father of the Bride’ Values Relationships With Women

Steve Martin and Kimberly Williams-Paisley in Father of the Bride

This is a guest review by Mab Ryan.

Father of the Bride (1991) is aptly named, as its focus is not on the wedding itself or the couple involved but on the titular character’s neuroses and journey to maturity. The wedding is the backdrop and the incident that provokes growth in the main character; it follows the wedding script in toto, so if you’re unfamiliar with any of the conventions of a traditional US wedding, this movie is a great primer. It’s an outrageously expensive, white wedding for thin, wealthy, white folks. People of color and gay men exist as support staff and magical queers. But the movie’s take on gender roles is constructive. Despite its focus on a male character, the movie is really about the affection a father feels for his daughter. He’s always recognized her as an individual person; now he must recognize her as an individual adult person.

The opening credits roll over champagne bubbles, flower petals, and the flotsam of a finished wedding strewn about the house, before honing in on George Banks (Steve Martin), the narrator and protagonist. He speaks directly to the camera, rubbing his weary feet, sitting in a floral armchair, surrounded by pale pink and ecru, a color scheme prevalent throughout the movie. Weddings are womanish, the décor screams. But that’s okay, because femininity is never portrayed negatively.

George narrates amidst girly wedding décor

George reminisces about his daughter Annie (Kimberly Williams), now 22, as a little girl, then refers darkly to her first signs of adolescence. He engages in a little gender essentialism, stating that boys are only after one thing because it’s the same thing he was after at their age; and the only thing worse than a daughter meeting the wrong guy is her meeting the right guy. That sentiment could come off as creepy if it wasn’t followed quickly with: “Because then you lose her.”

George hates change, he tells us, expounding lustfully on his comfortable, familiar life. Banks is not a misnomer; from my vantage point it’s difficult to tell the difference between middle class and rich, but this family falls somewhere in between. Annie has been studying architecture in Rome, George owns his own athletic shoe factory, and the family resides in a large home in Los Angeles. The factory is full of smiling (mostly) white people, so I guess we should think of George as a good guy, keeping jobs in America rather than opening sweat shops in Malaysia, though I don’t know that the filmmakers thought any more deeply about it than indulging in our shared fantasy that the materials we consume are the product of happy white labor, rather than deleterious off-shoring.

The Banks’ million-dollar house

Annie has come home with news she can’t quite figure out how to say. It is just so awkward to come out to your parents as … engaged … in a heterosexual relationship. Sorry non-heteros! If you want a movie that hits closer to home, feel free to imagine that fiancé Brian is a lady. Honestly, it feels like the movie was written about a gay couple, but they couldn’t sell it unless they changed one of the characters to a different gender. (I’m thinking it’s time for an update on this movie, but considering that Behind the Candelabra couldn’t land a theater release, I’m not holding out much hope.)

Despite cleaving to traditional wedding customs with sexist origins, the characters show signs of social awareness. “I thought you didn’t believe in marriage,” George says to Annie, “I thought it meant that a woman lost her identity.” He’s obviously repeating a line of thought she originated. Annie’s feelings have evolved to accept an egalitarian marriage, which is fine. It’s great that she’s thinking about this stuff and that she’s developed in an environment supportive of her aspirations and self-worth.

Supportiveness has its limits, apparently. After a fight in which George declares that Annie is not getting married and that’s final, the two make peace over a game of basketball. As a girl who grew up shooting hoops, it is this scene, more than any other, that I find redemptive of George. Rather than treat sports as a “boy thing,” George has obviously spent years playing with his daughter. Each performs a goofy dance when they score a goal, and slow-mo high fives are de rigueur. It feels real and comfortable.

Annie and George come together by facing off in basketball

Brian scores a good first impression with Annie’s mother Nina (Diane Keaton) when he declares his desire to marry and produce children and grandchildren. Nina is predictably thrilled with his promise to follow a normative script. Annie points out that he’s willing to move wherever her career takes her. Score one, Brian.

If you think the Banks are well off, wait ‘til you meet the new in-laws in Bel-Air. “We could have parked our whole house in the foyer,” George narrates. Yet, he refuses to accept contributions from this family in paying for the wedding because it is traditionally the duty of the bride’s father to pay for everything, including flying some of the groom’s family in from Denmark, one of whom is large enough to require two seats. “She can lop into the aisle for all I care,” says George. This cousin later lifts him off his feet in an unexpected hug. Fat people: always disrespecting peoples’ boundaries, amirite?

George meets the groom’s family in a dark sport coat, while the décor and everyone else’s clothes are pale, muted pastels, making it obvious how out of place George and his feelings about the wedding are. Brian’s father conveniently lays out the lesson that George must learn by the end of the movie: “Sooner or later you have to just let your kids go and hope you brought them up right.” Hijinks ensue as George does some snooping and winds up chased off a balcony by the resident Dobermans. The dogs are deep black, the only other dark color like George’s coat, drawing a parallel between their snarling reaction to an intruder and George’s reaction to this wedding.

Franck is flamboyant

No wedding movie would be complete without an over-the-top, flamboyantly gay character. This movie features two as wedding consultants. Howard Weinstein is actually played by gay Chinese-American actor BD Wong and is the only person of color with a speaking role (and he’s just the assistant to the help). Franck (Martin Short) has an indeterminate European accent that the women have no difficulty penetrating but that George finds unintelligible. Foreign people are so funny! Gay people are also so funny! Of course, neither character’s sexuality is explicitly stated. In 1991 it was perfectly acceptable to laugh at quirky gay people and let them help accessorize us so long as we don’t have to consider them as real people with feelings or desires or (shudder) romantic lives.

The cost and the hassle of preparing for the wedding drives George to freak out and wind up in jail. Nina bails him out but not before reasoning with him to act his age. She has a huge smile on her face and speaks to him patiently, when most women would be rightfully furious. But this isn’t her movie. She exists to coax George along his journey to maturity.

Good news, George! Annie calls off the wedding because that sexist asshole Brian bought her a … blender? Maybe it’s because I never really used a blender until after age 21 that I don’t understand this as an allusion to a 1950’s housewife mentality. All it says to me is daiquiris, and I’d be thrilled to receive a functioning model (Do all of your blenders also break after two uses? Just me?), but Annie has to be reassured that Brian didn’t mean this in a regressive get-thee-to-the-kitchen-wench kind of way before we’re back on again. The highlight is that this is not a bitches-be-crazy message. Instead it’s explicitly portrayed as a character flaw she inherited directly from her father, while Brian provides emotional stability like Nina does. That’s actually a fantastic message, separating personality traits from gender.

The night before the wedding, George shares a moment with his son, apologizing for ignoring him the whole movie. It’s definitely a reversal to see the relationship between father and daughter receive the emphasis over father and son. I think this placing of the (non-sexual) relationship with a woman as central—rather than the wedding theme—is what makes a movie a “chick-flick” and therefore unsuitable for Manly Men™

Wedding in Father of the Bride

George once again daydreams about Annie as a small child, but this time it launches into a montage of her growing into a teen, and then a woman. She’s grown up, and he’s finally recognizing that. But that doesn’t mean their special parent/child relationship is over, which is delightfully represented by Annie walking down the aisle in the pair of wedding sneakers her father designed for her.

Has George grown up as well? It’s hard to say. At the actual wedding, he cares only about being there for his daughter (though events conspire to keep him away). We never do see him return to the chair from which he began narrating the movie as a flashback. But every snide and petulant remark was made after the events of the movie occurred. Perhaps George was just being honest about his feelings at the time. I’m not convinced he’s really changed but merely suffered through one life-altering event. The existence of a sequel seems to confirm this. But if the sequel continues this trend of showcasing the value of relationships with women, I might have to dig up a copy.


Mab Ryan is a fat, geeky, queerish, rainbow-haired feminist currently studying Art and Creative Writing at Roanoke College.

Think There Aren’t Feminist Themes in ‘The Purge’? Think Again

Movie poster for The Purge
Spoiled by Stephanie Rogers.
Turns out, the best way to see the latest violent horror film is to watch it in a packed theater in Times Square. The audience laughed together, squealed together, shouted at the screen together, and collectively bonded over the most ridiculous features of the movie as well as the more progressive aspects.
As the credits rolled, a young Black woman sitting behind me stood up and yelled, “And the Black dude survives!” I mean, hadn’t we all been thinking it? We’re so used to filmmakers killing off characters of color, especially in horror films, that watching a Black dude walk into the sun at the end of a movie after saving a bunch of rich white people stood out as a fucking anomaly. The Purge is certainly problematic, but it surprised me to feel a sense of … hope at the end of it. Could this reversal of the white savior trope start a new trend in filmmaking? And did a film finally punish a Rich White Dude instead of celebrating his successes at the expense of others? And what would movies even be like if these became the new tenets of onscreen storytelling?
I like to do this thing sometimes where I show up at films with absolutely zero information about them. The Purge looked like a fun movie to try that with, and I’m glad I did it; if I’d known the premise of the movie in advance, I doubt I could’ve talked myself into paying 75 dollars to see it and spending 45 minutes slow-walking 3 blocks to the theater in the most crowded area of Manhattan. Luckily, the plot made itself clear within the first few minutes. 
Video footage of the annual Purge
It takes place in the future, nine years from now in the United States, which boasts a government known as The New Founders of America (NFA). The New Founders have instituted an annual day of murder and mayhem dubbed The Purge, allowing anyone to roam the streets freely in search of people to violate so that they might purge themselves of their lurking hate and rage. It lasts twelve hours and during that time no emergency services or police officers exist, making it a free-for-all. Not everyone is required to participate, but people are encouraged at least to indicate their support of The Purge by placing a vase of blue baptisias (baptism, get it?) on their front doorstep in a gesture of solidarity. While the family the film focuses on, The Sandins, appears not to necessarily enjoy The Purge or participate in the “festivities,” they support its existence, mainly because the institution of The Purge lowered the once-staggering unemployment rate to 1%, saving the economy and making the annual crime rate almost nonexistent. The main characters see it as a tolerable, necessary evil, and besides—they’re the richest people in their state-of-the-art secured neighborhood; what’s the worst that could happen to them
“Don’t forget to put the Baptisias on the porch, Honey!”
Well, they could help a Black dude avoid getting murdered by a bunch of creepy, self-proclaimed “highly-educated” white people in their twenties, who roam the gated suburbs carrying machine guns and machetes and wearing masks like they just wandered off the set of The Strangers. Your bad, Sandins, your bad. 
WTFWTFWTF
Let me take a step back.
The Sandins actually fucking suck for the most part, at least in the beginning. Ethan Hawke plays James Sandin, who works as a security developer and who clearly profits off the The Purge; the Sandins own the biggest house in their subdivision—a jealous woman neighbor sarcastically “jokes” that The Purge Survival Systems that James sold to everyone in the hood obviously paid for the new addition to the Sandins’ home—and James himself gloats during that night’s family dinner about his rise to the spot of Top Seller at his security firm. (Rich White Dudes profiting off the hardships of others … does that sound familiar to anyone?) Mary Sandin (Lena Headey) gives the impression she’s a homemaker; we see her cooking dinner and chiding her children (Zoey, a high schooler and Charlie, a younger teen) as she readies them for the pre-purge lockdown, and she leaves the house only to place the baptisias on the porch and speak with the neighbor who envies her family’s wealth. The Sandins seem truly clueless about the extreme jealousy all the less rich white people (minus the token, light-skinned woman of color) feel toward them, but the audience gets the message all over the place: Sandins, consider yourselves fucked. 
Uh-Oh
On the surface, The Purge aims to critique the sick shit going on in our country right now, albeit very problematically. Dan Gainor, VP of Business and Culture at the Media Research Institute called The Purge “an obvious attack on the Tea Party and Christians” and also argued that:
… the movie is a direct attack on the NRA, an organization filled with millions of law-abiding gun owners. The loony left’s reflexive hatred of the 2nd Amendment is founded in the concept that people who don’t break the law are somehow evil for exercising the Constitutional rights.
Okay, Dan Gainor.
The truth? No anti-Christian or even anti-gun message exists in The Purge, although the director, James Monaco, has said in interviews that the film does, in fact, allude to an indictment of gun culture. In reality, The Purge employs extreme gory violence that undercuts any potential critique of violence, and the gruesome knife scenes and weaponless face shattering against tables stick out way more than the gun stuff. At times, The Purge even seems to support gun ownership; the Sandins wouldn’t have survived those twelve hours without guns, and owning a gun for the protection of oneself and one’s domestic space is a much-touted NRA message. The anti-Christian thing, too, is a reach. The characters worship money for sure, and the film critiques that, but neither Christianity nor any religion ever come up.
Unfortunately, The Purge becomes muddled in its message about government; Big Government runs amok here—an old school conservative’s nightmare—and The New Founders essentially sanction the murder of the have-nots, the people on the lower rungs who can’t afford James Sandin’s security system to cordon themselves off from the annual purgers. If anything, it supports the old school conservative argument against Big Government, and a viewer could easily read it as a cautionary tale for a federal government that holds too much influence over its citizens. 
State-of-the-Art-Secured McMansion
On the other hand, neo-cons of 2013 seem to think they dislike Big Government while simultaneously inviting it into wombs all across America, so who the fuck even knows anymore. The point is, The Purge wants to yell from the rooftops, “How awful for the government to endorse the murder of its citizens!” but ultimately yells, “How awful for the government to endorse the murder of its citizens … but, wait, look how well it works when we rid the country of these homeless welfare seekers!” The Purge tries to have it both ways and fails to deliver any real cohesive message regarding guns, religion, or the role of government.
But I definitely heard the slam against the one-percenters loud and clear, and what a welcomed fucking change from the endless dumping of Hollywood Mancession films into the multiplex. The Purge imagines a science fiction-esque United States where the rich take over entirely and wage a violent war against the lower classes, even going so far as to pass a Constitutional Amendment (the 28th) to require its existence. (Most government officials naturally receive legal protection from harm during The Purge.) Simply put: this futuristic United States decides that murdering those most in need makes more sense than uniting together in support of them. In this way, the film does seem to offer a critique of the country’s current fringe groups (the Tea Party, most Republicans) by illustrating a worst-case scenario for a society that values capital over people—and fuck if it didn’t scare me a little. 
This is the scariest person I’ve ever seen on film
Because this is a film about class relations and capitalism, the less rich (white people) end up turning on the super rich (white people) during the night—another nod to the idea that unregulated capitalism leads only to societal destruction. The end of the film includes audio of newscasts that play over the credits, with broadcasters reporting that the high number of deaths made that year’s Purge the most successful ever. So, while the film might not necessarily conclude with any real epiphany by the United States and its citizens (yay for killing the homeless!), it allows the audience a glimpse into the lives of a few one-percenters who try to destroy one another, all because of money. Oh, and because Charlie Sandin (a not-yet-sociopathic teen) decides to help a Black dude. “And the Black dude survives!”
As a feminist movie critic, I adored these flips on conventional horror tropes, and several of them exist. 
Charlie uses his Robot Baby (omg) to help hide the Black dude from his parents
The White Savior: The Black dude, who seriously remains nameless, shows up in their neighborhood after the Sandins’ purge lockdown (where a hardcore security system barricades their entire home). Charlie Sandin hears gunfire in the streets and sees in the surveillance cameras the Black dude yelling for help, covering a bleeding wound. Charlie zooms in on the man’s terrified face and decides, “Duh, I need to help this guy.” So he unlocks the security system and yells for the shocked-as-hell Black dude to come inside, much to the dismay of his parents. At first, I thought, “This white savior trope again?!” but it didn’t last long. While Charlie helps the man, the older Sandins clearly want no part of it, especially after a group of asshole college kids (that I will forever refer to as “the highly-educated murderers”) threatens to break into their home if they refuse to release the Black dude back into the streets. See, “that homeless swine” belongs to them, and if they don’t get to kill him, they’re more than willing to kill the entire Sandin clan instead. So, duh, the parents torture the Black dude—in an effort to throw him back to the highly-educated murderers—while Zoey and Charlie freak the fuck out like, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING.” 
Charlie watches the Black dude on surveillance cameras
The Protective Patriarch: All of this occurs in the name of James Sandin protecting his perfect, white nuclear family. He simultaneously apologize-stabs the Black dude several times while saying, “I’m sorry. I need to protect my family.” Mary Sandin, though, gets her, “James, you’re no better than the people out there!” on—because women and children always play the role of Moral Compass when men go astray. That trope unfortunately remains intact for the rest of the film, culminating with Mary’s decision not to murder her new home invaders (the less-rich jealous neighbors, at this point; did we NOT know they were gunning for the Sandins, too?). At one point Mary says, “Too many people have died tonight, so we’re going to end this night in fucking peace.” Or something. Even the Black dude says to James, “You need to protect your family,” offering up himself to the highly-educated murderers, but James experiences a swift change of heart and refuses to sacrifice him. Thanks to the women and children.
And in a way, I liked that the women and children felt compelled to protect the Black dude and not throw him to the wolves/preppies; I didn’t read their desire to do so as an employment of the white savior trope because these highly-educated murderers aimed to roll in there and kill everybody regardless. So the Sandins weren’t saving the Black dude as much as they were making it only slightly more difficult for him to get murdered. “And the Black dude survives!” in the end. And saves (most of) the Sandins. And walks off into the sun. After looking at Mary Sandin and saying, “Good luck” all deadpan. Ha. 
Zoey secretly making out with the bro her dad hates
The Sexual Teenage Girl: Zoey Sandin interests me. Her character follows conventional horror film tropes from the get-go: she dates an older boy, much to the dismay of her disapproving dad because Daddy’s Little Girl. She sneaks around behind her family’s back, and her boyfriend even hides out in her room, staying put for the Sandins’ home lockdown. They make out on her bed while she wears a fucking schoolgirl outfit slash uniform; the scene screams INNOCENT VIRGIN about to HAVE SEX and then DIE because THIS IS A HORROR MOVIE. But. Her dad kills her boyfriend instead in a good ol’ Purge Family Shootout after her boyfriend pulls a gun on James out of nowhere (presumably to purge himself of the rage he feels for not being allowed to date Zoey), and James fires back in self defense. Zoey, a little devastated, runs off and hides for some reason, probably because THIS IS A HORROR MOVIE and groups never stick together.
Eventually, the highly-educated murderers breach the Sandin barricade, and we find Zoey hiding under her bed while—duh again—she sees one of them STOP beside her bed. THIS IS A HORROR MOVIE. While this happens, she overhears another murderer—who’s stroking a photo of Zoey—say, “Exquisite. Save her for me, won’t you?” I immediately thought, please don’t rape her please don’t rape her because THIS IS A HORROR MOVIE, and horror films dole out punishment to their sexually provocative heroines hardcore. But the true highlight of The Purge, for me at least, occurred when Zoey murdered the fuck out of the photo stroker, saving (most of) her family and flipping the Sexual Activity Is Punishable By Death convention on its ass. 
Zoey hides under her bed (THIS IS A HORROR MOVIE)
So, all in all, and as unwieldy as The Purge gets (not unlike this review), I couldn’t help but enjoy most of it. The Rich White Dude gets punished, and the minority characters (including women) survive. That shouldn’t be a progressive movie ending in 2013. It is.

"Would You Have Treated Her Differently If She Was a Man?": A Review of ‘Side Effects’

Movie poster for Side Effects
Written by Stephanie Rogers. Includes massive spoilers. Massive.
When I saw Side Effects about a month ago, I found myself eye-rolling my way through the entire second half of the film. I liked the first half, mostly because I like looking at Channing Tatum, but when he left the film, so did my desire to stay. As is almost always the case with me, if I spend too much time thinking about a movie, I usually decide that I 50% loved it and 50% hated it and could really go either way in my review of it. Since (I think) I mostly hated this one, allow me to illustrate those reasons first. 
Hi
First, am I really supposed to take seriously an indictment of Big Pharma when Rolling Rock product placement shows up every five seconds? Honestly, if Jude Law had turned out to be a scheming Big Alcohol Lobbyist instead of a super likeable psychiatrist, I would’ve thought, “What a not-that-surprising twist!” I was just waiting for Jude Law to smile his Jude Law smile into the camera and say, “Why take Ablixa when you can numb your psychological pain with Rolling Rock!”
In addition to undercutting its attempt to take down the American Corporation Shitshow, the film manages to also undercut its initial critique of Rich White Dudes Ruining the Universe. How? The old-fashioned way: by throwing a couple of manipulative bitches in there to make Rich White Dudes sympathetic. 
Oh no, Martin, what have you done?!
If you hate spoilers, for real stop reading now; I’m about to ruin EVERYTHING.
So, Rooney Mara plays Emily Taylor and fakes her suicidal depression so convincingly that I felt horrified when I realized the scam. I spent a significant part of that first half of the film identifying with Emily—her search for the right medications and dealing with their inevitable shitty side effects; her public crying jags, her complete lack of self-care, the desire to set up shop under the fucking covers forever—I mean, major depressive episodes are serious business. And her depression makes sense. Side Effects shows in flashbacks how her once Rich White Dude husband, Martin (Channing Tatum), ended up in prison for five years because of an insider trading scandal. The juxtaposition of their old life together—a giant mansion-esque home, expensive cars, 2000-dollar bottles of wine poured into diamond-coated glasses while Emily and Martin play doubles tennis in slow motion (not really)—makes their new tiny apartment and that whole scraping-by-for-cash thing that happens in the rest of Amurica look absolutely mortifying by comparison. I felt pretty bad for her. 
SINGLE TEAR
But then Jude Law (Dr. Banks) rolls in to save the day! I seriously couldn’t get over the niceness of this dude. He first meets Emily when he’s the on-call doctor in the ER after she deliberately drives her car into a fucking parking garage wall. They talk for a minute, and he eventually agrees to see her again on an outpatient basis instead of sending her to a mental hospital for her suicide attempt. He then prescribes a few medications that unsuccessfully treat her “depression” before settling on a newly developed drug, Ablixa, which comes with an unmentioned sleepwalking side effect. (Hi, Ambien lawsuits!) Of course murder ensues because SIDE EFFECTS, and shit gets real.
I hated pretty much everything after this. 
Rich White Dude being all sympathetic and nice
In general, I enjoy watching the (albeit rare) punishment of Rich White Dudes onscreen, especially given that this film takes place during one of the worst economic downturns in Amurican History, and I hope we can all agree that Rich White Dudes caused it and never suffered any actual real-life consequences. Unfortunately, Side Effects wants us to feel bad for these Rich White Dudes and successfully accomplishes that. Because these are the NICEST RICH WHITE DUDES EVAR. Like, Channing Tatum paid his dues. He went to prison and got out and spent the rest of his five minutes in the film apologizing incessantly for ruining his wife’s life. He took her to the doctor and tried to understand her depression and how best to care for her. By the time Emily pretended to sleepwalk a knife through his kidneys, I FUCKING LIKED HIM.
And poor Jude Law! Seriously, this bro made about zero questionable decisions in the first half of the film—other than being reasonably shitfaced on Rolling Rock during all his interactions—so he deserves about zero of the bad things that happen to him at the hands of Emily and her partner in crime (and previous psychiatrist) Dr. Victoria Siebert (Catherine Zeta-Jones). I mean, look at him:
Why are they doing this to Jude Law?!
SERIOUSLY WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO JUDE LAW?! Turns out, Dr. Siebert and Emily wanted to get White-Dude Rich themselves! And in order to make that happen, they bought a shitload of stock in the Ablixa competitor, then tanked the Ablixa stock by blaming it for causing murder and mayhem. SIDE EFFECTS. Or something along those lines—my stock situation consists of a 401K from a job I lost in 1999, and I just keep letting it sit there because I’m not an adult yet. They did somethin’ real bad with stocks & stuff, is what I’m sayin’.
So, to recap my recap, in the process of Getting Rich or Dying Trying, these two ladies—in addition to, you know, committing murder, doing some questionable stock market shit, perjuring themselves in court, making a mockery of actual mental illness, and mind-fucking every person they come in contact with—ruin poor Jude Law’s life for no reason. He prescribed the Ablixa, after all. Does it matter that when Emily first “complained” of sleepwalking side effects he immediately said STOP TAKING IT? Nope. Does it matter that he dropped everything to console Emily every time she needed his help, even when she showed up looking like a stalker during his lunch date with his girlfriend-wife? Nope. Does it matter that he remained a staunch ally on her behalf throughout her entire murder trial? Nope. His medical practice crumbles; he loses patients; and his girlfriend-wife leaves him. Now all we’ve got is Jude in his apartment with the Rolling Rock, you know? I’ve never seen a more sympathetic character onscreen. 
Dr. Banks in the process of unraveling the tricky scheme
Luckily he’s a Nice Guy™ so he eventually unravels the tricky scheme and of course manages to outsmart the ladies, who, in addition to being total assholes also happen to be—wait for it—LOVERS. So much duh right now, right? Like, could this film have worked at all if Catherine Zeta-Jones and Rooney Mara didn’t have a hot make out scene for no reason? FUCK NO IT COULDN’T HAVE. 
Emily seducing Dr. Seibert because … ?
Now, let me take a step back and talk about the one part I managed to not hate.
Once the Dr. Banks/Jude Law medical practice begins its downward spiral, one of his colleagues asks to speak with him. It’s a Rich White Dude, too! He and Dr. Banks and the audience have yet to figure out that this entire situation is a hilarious-suicidal-depression-not-really scheme. His colleague, concerned for how this Ablixa sleepwalking murder incident will impact him, looks at Dr. Banks and says, “Would you have treated her differently if she was a man?” Dr. Banks, appalled, refutes this and maintains his stance that he prescribed Ablixa only when other medications failed to effectively treat Emily’s depression. It’s convincing enough, but it got me wondering. 
Catherine Zeta-Jones as The Evil Dr. Siebert
Is there any way in hell a man could’ve pulled this off the way Emily did? The success of this scheme relies mainly on one thing: believability. Dr. Banks needs to believe her. He needs to believe she’s suicidal. He needs to believe the medications he initially prescribed for her didn’t work. He needs to believe her depression is severe enough to warrant prescribing an experimental drug. Most importantly, he needs to believe Emily doesn’t require hospitalization while somehow also believing she isn’t a danger to others. Essentially, the success of this scheme relies on what is commonly referred to in feminism and in other intelligent –ism groups as Medical Sexism. 
Dr. Banks knows what’s up. Finally.
BOOM—I guess I don’t entirely hate you, Side Effects.
Medical Sexism exists because doctors and other members of the medical community often dismiss women’s very real physical symptoms as psychological. For instance, a woman experiencing shortness of breath is more likely to receive an anxiety diagnosis than a man with similar symptoms, who might be referred for more tests to rule out stuff like, oh I don’t know, SERIOUS HEART PROBLEMS. This is some documented shit—with statistics to back it up and everything—and it has a lot to do with that whole HYSTERIA and Bitches Be Crazy thing still hanging around from the 19th century.
So, when Rich White Dude colleague asks Dr. Banks, “Would you have treated her differently if she was a man?” the correct answer, Dr. Banks, is “FUCK YUS I WOULD HAVE.” The reality is that Emily looked like a drugged, mopey, fragile, broken little girl, and Dr. Banks wanted to swoop in and touch her tiny hand and look into her watery eyes and say, “I can help you.” I dare a dude to throw his Honda Civic in drive and smash into a fucking cement wall. How long do you think it would take for Dr. Banks to personally roll Ol’ Dude’s ass up to the Bellevue Psychiatric Ward strapped to a fucking gurney?
Dr. Banks didn’t do that with Emily because, in his eyes, she looked like a sopping, hysterical lady-mess that The Lord Our God placed on this earth for him to fix all by hisself! And as a result, he accidentally glossed over Emily’s I’mma Murder My Husband situation. And you just know if it had been Ol’ Dude in the Honda Civic instead of Emily, he’d be failing the fuck out of The Dr. Banks “Is This Bro a Homicidal Maniac?” Test. 
Okay, maybe THIS was a questionable decision, Dr. Banks
So should I call this a cautionary tale? Like, maybe Soderbergh’s all, “Listen. You should never let a woman’s supposed suicidal depression mask that bitch’s killing instinct.” Or maybe he’s all, “Listen. Stop Medical Sexism Now! Or Else!” I don’t know. But the simple fact that the Rich White Dude colleague spoke up about Emily’s gender, and how it might’ve impacted Dr. Banks’ treatment decisions, gives Side Effects a touch of complexity that it most certainly lacks otherwise.
Of course, thinking so much about the correct answer to “Would you have treated her differently if she was a man?” got me thinking about the correct answer to “Would you have hated this movie if it were about two men?” And then I laughed for ten minutes and choked from not breathing because this ludicrous shit became the plot of my new movie:
A man named Tommy Bronson reunites with his wife after her five-year stint in prison for insider trading. He becomes depressed and attempts suicide; after all, his wife lost their life savings and forced him to move into a small apartment where he struggled to make ends meet. He begins seeing a psychiatrist—Dr. Sheila Nori—after his first suicide attempt, and Dr. Nori agrees to see him as an outpatient, even though he’s clearly a danger to himself and possibly others. She puts him on an experimental new drug that causes Tommy to sleepwalk. He mentions it to Dr. Nori who immediately says, “You should stop taking the drug.” When he refuses—because his sex life is so much better now!—Dr. Nori drops the subject. Little does Dr. Nori know that Tommy is planning to revenge-murder his wife in a Sleepwalking While Stabbing Event.

Hi

Dr. Nori stands by Tommy after the murder, but soon, Dr. Nori’s life starts to crumble. Her medical practice loses business; her colleagues question her ethics; her boyfriend-husband leaves her and takes the kid, too. She sits in her apartment alone, drinking Rolling Rock in the dark. Eventually, she puts some clues together and discovers that Tommy and his past psychiatrist, Dr. John Lerner, had planned the whole thing! And also, they’re lovers! She finds a way to ruin both their lives by having Tommy seduce John in the hopes that John will spill the beans because—get this—Tommy is wearing a wire! They get jail time and/or life in an asylum. Tommy and John fucked with the wrong shrink. (That’s the tagline.)

The end.

2013 Pop-Culture Resolutions

Written by Max Thornton.
I have a confession to make:
Last year, I only went to the movies a dozen times, and only 7 of those were 2012 releases.
That is the least time I have spent at the movies in any year since I started going to the movies. There are a few reasons for this tragic failure of mine:
  • I’m a grad student, so I don’t have much free time.
  • I’m a grad student, so I don’t have much spare money.
  • After a blissful six-month stint working in a cinema in 2011 and taking full advantage of my comps, I am still a little resistant to the prospect of having to pay to go to the movies.
  • I no longer live in London, where there is a glorious wealth of theaters screening any and every movie you could want to see. All of four movie theaters exist within walking distance of me now, and most of them have a pretty unexciting selection of films most of the time.
The biggest reason, though, is my general sense of disillusionment with Hollywood as a whole. I’m not sure if this is because the past year or two offered genuinely fewer interesting movies than previous years, or because inevitably a sense of ennui sets in after a while. For example, I thought The Master was okay, but it didn’t blow me away like There Will Be Blood did in 2007. Is this because The Master is an inferior film, or because, with five more years of film-watching behind me, I am just bored to death of movies about white dudes talking about stuff?
To be honest, 2013 doesn’t look much better than 2012 when it comes to movies that grab my attention. A cursory glance over the list of forthcoming releases fills me with despondence. I want to see Zero Dark Thirty, but I’m disturbed by reports that it’s naked CIA propaganda. I’ll see the Evil Dead remake, though my expectations are lowered with every advance word that trickle out. There won’t be any escape from seeing Star Trek: Into Skegness (British joke!). Just about the only 2013 movie I have unmitigated, childlike excitement for is Pacific Rim. Giant robots, giant sea monsters, Guillermo del Toro, and Idris Elba are four of my favorite things, and I can only hope and pray that the combination will be as marvelous as I’m anticipating.
I can’t be the only one who would switch teams for this dude in a heartbeat, right?
 
The thing about being a grouchy griping curmudgeon, though, is that it gets old fast. I want to like things. I want to get excited about upcoming movies. Salivating over a giant-robots-versus-sea-beasties movie is way more fun than shitting all over the latest crop of derivative, kyriarchal tedium. I’m not going to quit fighting the good fight, but I am going to change my focus a little. Here are my pop-culture resolutions for 2013:
I will see more movies alone.
Last week, I went to the movies alone for the first time in eighteen months. It was FANTASTIC. I used to go to the cinema alone all the time, back when I was a fresher in university trying to escape roommate troubles, and I’d forgotten just how brilliant it is. Something about sitting in a darkened auditorium with a group of strangers, never speaking to each other but sharing the cognitive experience onscreen, is just delightful to me.

I’m certain I get this exact expression when I see a good movie alone.

 

I will seek out more foreign and independent films.
It was so easy when I lived in London. I had maybe half a dozen favorite cinemas, scattered all around central London; anything that got any kind of UK release was guaranteed to be screening somewhere nearby. In 2012, shamefully enough, I didn’t see a single foreign-language film. Not one. I haven’t even seen Les Misérables yet, and I’m pretty sure the title and character names are the only French things about that movie. I pledge to make more of an effort this year. Hollywood might be boring me silly, but there must be interesting things going on elsewhere in the world.
I will not be ungrateful about Community, no matter what happens.
When showrunner Dan Harmon was unceremoniously fired from his brainchild, it seemed like yet another death-knell in the long, slow, painful process of NBC’s gradual euthanizing of my favorite show. I had spent so much energy hoping for Community‘s unlikely season-four renewal that, when it actually happened, it seemed churlish to carp about Harmon’s absence. Some fans are predicting that season four can only be a vortex of suck without his guidance. For now I reserve judgment – though, after being so vocal about my hope for a fourth season, I won’t really feel I can legitimately complain even if I do wind up hating it.
This picture does a lot to assuage my fears.
 
Anyone else have any pop-culture resolutions? What are you planning to do or not do in 2013?
Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.

Surprise: Rich White Men Dominate the Cinema

I don’t want to see the film Oliver Stone will want to make about Romney
Here is my draft of an open tweet I am working on for directors and producers of Hollywood who continue directing and producing movies mostly about rich white men:

@WealthyDirectors&Producers I know ppl r told 2 “write what u know” & the nxt logical step 4 filmmakers would b 2 “film what u know.” But, stop, we’ve had enuf of rich men.

So, an open tweet might not be the best format to address my frustration with Hollywood and the seeming upsurge in rich-white-man-falling-from-rich-graces story arc. And, it might not be practical to address it to a made-up twitter handle. But, when the system is so dang exclusive, I got to get by with my gimmicks.

Our whole movie-making industry fits comfortably into the laps of well-to-do white men between the ages of 18-35. So, even though great films are coming out, the ones that are – during a recession for Christ’s sake – are falling radically at the ends of a spectrum at around poverty porn or bewailing the epic fall of an epic hero.

Why is it, for instance, that we had to endure another Oliver Stone movie – a sequel to Wall Street ­­Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps? While it touched on some pretty timely issues – i.e. it followed our fall into economic crisis – it only looked through wealthy characters. These characters’ flaws were pretty solidly greed and excessive ambition. Help me out here, but that is just not where most Americans are at right now.

The two highest grossing movies of this year both feature obscenely rich playboys wielding their pocketbooks to fight crime. Tony Stark in The Avengers, is brilliant, but can only functionally be a superhero because he’s wealthy. While Bruce Wayne, in The Dark Knight Rises, would still be pretty badass without the money, he wouldn’t have gotten far in challenging Gotham’s worst without his high-tech gadgets and his martial arts training obtained overseas.

Past the summer blockbusters, even Oscar-chasers are focusing mostly on the stories of the rich and prestigious. Black Swan followed the story of a woman, (yes, a woman!) but she was a ballerina (not exactly an art form available to the middle-class budget) whose fall was connected with her ambition and rise to enormous success. The Great Gatsby is coming out in 2013, and while a great story on the failures of the “American Dream” it is still about the fall of a rich white man.

It seems like directors are pretty fascinated with the greed and corruption that led to the desperate state of our current economy. But, what about the result for the majority of Americans? You know, the big group of folks who are now dealing with tight budgets and un/underemployement? And why is the more pertinent entertainment not accessible to the groups who could relate to it? Why was Death of a Salesman only on Broadway? Doesn’t that seem like a good thing to send to theaters? I mean, if we have to look at the woes of white men – can they at least be struggling with culturally relevant strife? Why is Lena Dunham’s show Girls centered around the stories of struggling twenty-something (white) women, such a big hit on HBO and not a network? As in: why is a show about financially struggling young people available on a station that only people who can afford cable can watch.

Of course we’re not completely sunk. The third highest grossing film was The Hunger Games – a film featuring a strong young woman fighting the powers that be that continue to disenfranchise her and her society.

We need more people making film who aren’t obsessed with wealth and power. We need to address themes other than those concerning megalomaniacs. Wouldn’t it be a relief to see some blockbusters where the audience can actually relate to the problems the characters face?

Erin Fenner is a writer based in Portland. She likes film and feminism and alliteration.