Romantic Comedy – Bitch Flicks

Bisexuality in ‘Kissing Jessica Stein’ and ‘I Love You Phillip Morris’

Both films, then, arguably fit a wider cultural pattern of bi erasure, suggesting that bisexual characters must “resolve” themselves as either gay or straight. I would argue, however, that what marks ‘I Love You Phillip Morris’ and ‘Kissing Jessica Stein’ as something more nuanced and interesting than another tale of “inauthentic” bisexuality, is the subtlety with which they examine all sexual orientations as limited by our internalized need to socially perform.

This post written by staff writer Brigit McCone appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation. | Spoilers ahead.

How is bisexuality defined? If it is defined by sexual performance, then all the protagonists of the romantic comedies I Love You Phillip Morris and Kissing Jessica Stein must qualify: Steven Russell fathers a child with his wife while taking male lovers, while Jessica Stein and Helen Cooper are heterosexually active women who embark on a sexual relationship with each other. Yet, if bisexuality is defined by self-identification or by profound desire for both genders, then arguably none of these characters qualify: Steven Russell identifies exclusively as gay and appears passionless in his marriage; Jessica Stein is identified as straight even by her female lover, and cannot sustain sexual desire in her lesbian relationship; Helen Cooper, while attracted to men and women, appears emotionally detached and utilitarian towards all her male lovers, finding desire for romantic commitment only with women.

Both films, then, arguably fit a wider cultural pattern of bi erasure, suggesting that bisexual characters must “resolve” themselves as either gay or straight. I would argue, however, that what marks I Love You Phillip Morris and Kissing Jessica Stein as something more nuanced and interesting than another tale of “inauthentic” bisexuality, is the subtlety with which they examine all sexual orientations as limited by our internalized need to socially perform.

In I Love You Phillip Morris, Steven Russell (Jim Carrey) is introduced as a pillar of the community, a proud family man, an active member of his church and a policeman. The film suggests that Steven’s discovery that he was adopted, and the trauma of rejection by his birth mother, are the psychological triggers driving his powerful need for social approval, which includes suppressing the fact that he is gay. When driving back from a rendezvous with a male lover, a collision destroys his sports car and puts him in a neck-brace. Shorn of his status symbol and physically restrained, Stephen is mentally released and resolves to come out of the closet — the first of many moments when the physical restraint of jail or hospitalization triggers emotional liberation.

It may be controversial even to consider Steven as a potentially bisexual character, when his marriage is dictated by the demands of a closeted life, in a conservative culture of compulsory heterosexuality. Yet his coming out of the closet does not instantly transform him from “living a lie” to authenticity. Rather, he plays another social role, sporting extravagant status symbols and elaborate grooming to win the approval of the gay community, discovering that “being gay is really expensive.” As Steven turns to fraud to finance his extravagances, the film has fun with the idea that he has been psychologically prepared for the socially unacceptable role of con man by the socially demanded con of compulsory heterosexuality. As both wife Debbie (Leslie Mann) and boyfriend Jimmy (Rodrigo Santoro) unite to chase Steven and hold him accountable, we see that Steven’s compulsion to perform socially has been the driving force shaping both relationships, gay and straight.

Once in jail, I Love You Phillip Morris plays out like a rom-com spin on The Shawshank Redemption. Like The Shawshank Redemption‘s Andy Dufresne, Steven finds purification and transcendence by the power of his human will to cling to hope of escape, resisting the mental pressures of institutionalization. But where Andy’s sexual aspirations were represented only by a Rita Hayworth poster on his wall, Steven finds true love behind bars in Ewan McGregor’s winsome Phillip Morris. The famous Shawshank Redemption scene where Andy snatches an illicit moment to play Mozart over the PA system, is paralleled by a slow dance between Steven and Phillip to the strains of “Chances Are,” against a background of escalating prison brutality. Yet after emerging from prison, Steven’s lying and con-artistry rapidly resume, eventually alienating Phillip. Steven has been more deeply institutionalized by the society around him than he ever was by jail. As the film ends, he runs for freedom yet again, the dream of a perfectly realized love hanging over him as clear and yet elusive as a penis-shaped cloud.

As a representation of a bisexual woman, Kissing Jessica Stein‘s Jessica Stein (Jennifer Westfeldt) is a disappointment. Even after enjoyably consummating her relationship with Helen (Heather Juergensen), Jessica confesses to finding sex with a woman “all wrong.” However, if we accept Jessica as straight, made no more bisexual by her ability to perform sexually with a woman than Steven Russell is by his, then Kissing Jessica Stein (written by Westfeldt and Juergensen) changes from a bisexual rom-com into something else: a portrait of the price that the social institution of compulsory heterosexuality takes on a straight woman. Jessica is drawn to Helen by a Rilke quotation in her personal ad: “Only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live their relation to another as something alive.” It is Jessica’s heterosexuality that is characterized by the film as a space of deadness, inertia, and monotonous repetition, urgently in need of radical renewal and dismantled preconceptions.

The film opens with Jessica’s mother busily matchmaking her daughter in a synagogue. The men around her are reduced to a list of “suitable” qualities, from physical appearance to wealth and availability; Jessica is urged to force her feelings into finding their suitability attractive. Later, we see her endure a round of dates, each following the same formula of dinner and interrogation, and even taking place in the same restaurant. Jessica’s love life has become institutionalized. We also learn that she has already had a serious relationship with Josh (Scott Cohen), who will emerge as her final love interest. This earlier relationship failed because of Jessica’s intolerance over Josh’s perceived lack of ambition. Everything that we learn about Jessica’s loyalty in friendship indicates that she would be unfailingly supportive to a friend who was struggling in their career. But Jessica’s fixed, socialized preconceptions about the role of boyfriends or “husband material” mean that her lover must perform success, to become the expression of her own ambitions and perfectionism. It is heterosexual connection, not bisexuality, that Josh sees Jessica as “clearly not open to.” In a brilliantly acted and moving scene, Jessica’s mother (Tovah Feldshuh) reveals that it is this perfectionism that made her fear for her daughter’s happiness, while surprising her by accepting her lesbian lover.

This, then, is the role that bisexuality plays in Kissing Jessica Stein: the renewal of Jessica’s heterosexuality through the radical elimination of her romantic preconceptions, and through the thought experiment of reimagining female friendship as romance. Only in the ethics of female friendship, with its emphasis on unconditional loyalty, openness, and mutual support, does Jessica find the proper mental attitude from which to approach relationships, to live them in Rilke’s words as “something alive.” In a comic scene, Jessica pushes Helen towards a male lover because “he’s a sure thing” and Jessica would feel guilty if she was unable to perform. While this may be taken as yet additional proof that Jessica does not take Helen seriously as a romantic partner, it equally shows a classic female friendship’s ideals of unselfish support, that could even encompass a polyamorous relationship. Where are Jessica’s limits, once she releases herself from the narrow, social roles of compulsory heterosexuality? Is it ethical to reduce bisexuality to a plot device for exploring heterosexual frustrations? But, how else could those frustrations have been tackled?

Helen Cooper is introduced to us juggling male lovers: a married man whom she can call if she’s “hungry,” an intellectual she can call if she’s “bored,” and a younger, sexually enthusiastic messenger boy to call if she’s “horny.” This utilitarian attitude to her lovers is matched by a consistent emotional detachment in her dealings with them. Yet her gay friend Martin (Michael Mastro) uses the fact of her promiscuity alone to define her as straight, denying that she could feel lesbian attraction “because you have had more cock than I have, and I was a big whore in the 80s.” His denial of the possibility of bisexuality seems to stem from his need to assert his gay identity; bi erasure and biphobia are damaging and negatively impact and ignore bisexual people’s realities.

As Helen advertises for a lesbian lover, the women whose phone messages she receives seem trapped in fixed preconceptions of their own, as narrow as the expectations of the men that Jessica dates. They seek Helen as an emotional savior or to mother a child with them, rather than expressing openness to Rilke’s exploration of “something alive.” It is, perhaps, precisely Jessica Stein’s straightness that forces Helen to seduce her gradually and through the medium of friendship. In this combination of friendship with sexual allure, Helen seems to find committed romance for the first time. After she and Jessica break up, Helen moves into an apparently committed relationship with another woman, bickering good-naturedly over their sleeping arrangements before going for a friendly brunch with Jessica. Does this indicate that Helen has discovered her orientation as a lesbian? Is she a bisexual woman (since the gender of a person’s current romantic partner doesn’t determine their sexual orientation)? Or is she a bisexual woman who, like Jessica, was limited in her romantic satisfaction with men by her inability to see them as friends? Does it matter?

Surely, if there is a message to Kissing Jessica Stein and I Love You Phillip Morris, it is that social pressures and imposed roles must be unlearned before romantic fulfillment can be achieved. So then, at what point does a label become a limitation?

See also at Bitch Flicks:

LGBTQI Week: Kissing Jessica Stein

Brigit McCone is worried that her dating life may be becoming indescribably monotonous and unrenewed. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and staring at nature documentaries.

“I’m the Bad Guy”: Flipping the Romcom Script in ‘My Best Friend’s Wedding’

From the GBF to the pretty-ugly conformist-nonconformist girl, from positional superiority to “Hubble,” ‘My Best Friend’s Wedding’ expertly raises every clichéd plot twist and trope in the romcom playbook, before stripping them bare in favor of honesty, moral courage and the belief that life really does go on without a man. Surely that’s a message we can get behind?

Following on from “Why Pretty Woman Should Be Considered a Feminist Classic,” comes the eagerly awaited second installation of my thrilling series: “Julia Roberts Films That Other Writers On Bitch Flicks Hated But That I Actually Really Liked And Here’s Why” (currently seeking suggestions for a snappier title). So, is My Best Friend’s Wedding really a “Right-wing Nightmare Interpretation of Women”? Must every portrait of women be positive? Isn’t there room to satirize the negative? Watch that sugary opening with its singing bride and chorus of bridesmaids again. See the bridesmaids literally making the “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” pose? If P. J. “Muriel’s Wedding” Hogan’s tongue gets any farther into his cheek, he’s going to bite it off. Julia Roberts’ demented and devious Julianne Potter is not a role model. My Best Friend’s Wedding is, rather, a brilliantly acid, deadly accurate takedown of narcissistic and destructive tendencies in the romcom genre. Such as…

Positional Superiority

Positional superiority refers to a superiority that is assumed, not because of superior ethics or behavior, but because of a character’s position in the film. In practice, it means that we will endlessly justify the behavior of protagonists, because we are conditioned to identify a film’s protagonists with ourselves. In a traditionally male genre like an action movie, this narcissism of positional superiority asks us to sympathize and justify our hero in all his casual slaughter of enemy goons. As Austin Powers reminded us, nobody thinks of the families of the henchmen. In a traditionally female genre like romcom, positional superiority means that any attraction felt by the heroine will be “true love,” justifying her in going to any lengths to defeat her deluded and conveniently obnoxious love rivals, to win her trophy man.

In My Best Friend’s Wedding, all the positional superiority is on the side of Julianne Potter. We are set up to believe that Julianne Potter will be successful in winning her best friend’s love for several reasons. Firstly, she is our heroine. Secondly, she is played by America’s sweetheart, Julia Roberts, whose star power tilts us in her favor. Thirdly, she is in a romcom, a genre that conventionally sets up weddings to be interrupted by “true love.” In everything but ethics, Julianne is the clear favorite. Any normal romcom should reward her “wacky” exploits. But My Best Friend’s Wedding is different. The film takes gleeful delight in testing exactly how many “underhand, despicable, not even terribly imaginative” schemes Julianne can undertake before losing our sympathy. Can she force her gay best friend into a humiliating charade of fake engagement? Can she forge a letter that risks her true love’s job? Can she steal a bread van? How far does wackiness have to go before it becomes conniving delusion? Finally, the film forces Julianne to admit that she is not only “the bad guy” rather than the heroine, but the lowest of the low, “the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.” Her redemption lies in regaining her self-respect through the moral courage of total honesty, not rewarding her narcissism by the convenient prize of a trophy man. It’s a sharp reminder that “bad guy” status should depend on a character’s action and not their position in the story. Our narcissism makes it hard for us to accept such an even-handed justice for the character we identify with ourselves. As Julianne puts it, “Getting what you deserve isn’t fair!”

The Pretty-Ugly Girl

Consider, if you will, romcom The Truth About Cats And Dogs. By shutting one’s eyes and listening to Audrey Wells’ sharp script, it is possible to see that this is a smart updating of Cyrano de Bergerac for women. But the role of the physically unattractive girl with a face for radio is played by a bloomingly youthful Janeane Garofalo in a rather unflattering cardigan. A staple of the romcom genre is the “pretty-ugly girl,” usually a conventionally attractive brunette in faintly unflattering clothing, who is set up as the underdog in a rivalry with a conventionally attractive blonde that we are allowed to perceive as “pretty.” Pitting our heroine Julianne, a brunette with quirkily masculine tailoring, against rival Kimmy, a blonde who wears pink, is a classic use of the “pretty-ugly girl” as supposed underdog. Aside from contributing to society’s rampant body dysmorphia, the pretty-ugly girl fuels female rivalry. It gives women permission to hate or disdain love rivals for their conventional beauty while, at the same time, assuring us that conventional beauty is required of our heroine, even if she is a brunette. Encouraging women to strive to be conventionally beautiful while hating rivals for their own beauty is a recipe for permanent catfight.

A close relative of the pretty-ugly girl is the nonconformist-conformist girl. We tend to approve of Julianne Potter, because she is independent, quirkily cynical, career-oriented and doesn’t let herself be defined by a man. We tend to despise Kimmy, because she is prepared to sacrifice her education and her ambitions to settle down. So, we cheer for our Julianne to be rewarded… by settling down with Kimmy’s man. When you think about it, that would be more ironic than both rain on your wedding day and a free ride when you’ve already paid. The resentful ego of the pretty-ugly girl is revealed when Julianne calls herself the jello to Kimmy’s creme brulee. Though apparently self-deprecating, Julianne is actually citing her underdog status as the reason why she will win out in the end, because Michael feels “comfortable” with her. As Kimmy desperately hopes that she can become jello to win his love, Julianne snaps, “You’re never gonna be jello!” It is no coincidence that women of other body types, races and ages appear as spectators at the climactic bathroom showdown, as Julianne is finally forced to see her actions as they appear to others, outside her comforting bubble of pretty-ugly aggrieved entitlement.

“Hubble”

Sex And The City famously used the single word “Hubble” to explain Mr. Big’s marriage to a woman who was not Carrie. Referencing romcom tradition through the classic The Way We Were, the gang conclude that Big simply couldn’t handle the quirkiness and intelligence of Carrie, and was forced to settle on a safer, more boringly predictable bride. Her faith in “Hubble” may play a role in Carrie’s embarking on an affair with Big, one that the show paid lip service to criticizing but finally vindicated through Carrie’s own eventual happy ending with Big. If the pretty-ugly girl justifies aggrieved entitlement, body dysmorphia and resentment of more conventionally attractive rivals, then “Hubble” discredits and diminishes the man’s own right to choose. Julianne Potter is close to Carrie Bradshaw in many ways – she is newspaper columnist with a mass of curly hair and a cynical take on romance, who nevertheless winds up wanting the fairy tale. Over the course of the film, she will do anything to win Michael’s love – anything apart from telling him the truth and allowing him to make an informed choice. Her deluded assumption that she is justified in making his choice for him reaches a climax as she steals a bread van to chase him, leaving best friend George to remind her that no-one is actually chasing her. In a romcom genre where interrupted weddings have been traditional since the screwball climax of 1934’s Oscar-winning It Happened One Night, leading our heroes to regularly agree to marry incompatible and obnoxious partners for the flimsiest of manufactured reasons, My Best Friend’s Wedding reminds us that marriage is a commitment rarely undertaken without sincere love, however painful it may be to acknowledge and accept that fact. When all is said and done, “Hubble” is only a cowardly excuse to avoid accepting a man’s right to choose elsewhere, or the possibility that he may have good and valid reasons for doing so.

The GBF

Stanford of Sex And The City has a thankless role. Never invited to brunch with the girls, his role seems confined to the repeated assurances that Carrie is “fabulous.” Their relationship is so one-sided that one suspects that the gay male authors of the show are satirizing the narcissism of their female friends. If so, it was a satire that was lost on a large segment of the target audience. The GBF, the Gay Best Friend as fashion accessory and ego prop, was born. Superficially, Rupert Everett’s George appears to be a classic GBF. His role is a supporting one, offering emotional support and finally playing Julianne’s date and consolation prize at the wedding dinner. However, George is a very different animal from the usual GBF. Notice how all of Julianne’s calls are inconvenient interruptions to George’s full, satisfying life that emphatically does not revolve around his friend. We are given glimpses of his dinner parties with his long-term partner and his enjoyment of book readings. When he is dragged into a pretended engagement with Julianne, as part of her hair-brained scheme to provoke Michael’s jealousy, he protests loudly, mocks the engagement as “against God’s plan” and humiliates Julianne as his revenge. George’s comparing of their pairing to “Rock Hudson and Doris Day” evokes Hollywood’s long history of gay men forced into the closet for the convenience of female admirers. Though his life beyond Julianne is only briefly sketched, it paints her as the needy hanger-on in the relationship, making his final appearance at the wedding into an act of mercy and true friendship.

From the GBF to the pretty-ugly conformist-nonconformist girl, from positional superiority to “Hubble,” My Best Friend’s Wedding is superbly knowing as it expertly raises every clichéd plot twist and trope in the romcom playbook, before stripping them bare in favor of honesty, moral courage and the belief that life really does go on without a man. Surely that’s a message we can get behind?

Brigit McCone is shameless in her love of a good romcom (including Fight Club), writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and singing terrible karaoke.

‘Maggie’s Plan’ Is Just as Awkward and Charming and Grim as Gen-Y’s Struggle with Adulthood

Like ‘Frances Ha,’ ‘Maggie’s Plan’ resonates with the gen-Y, mumblecore picture of adulthood that says, “We’re all average, imperfect, confused people trying to stay afloat in a world that feels random and chaotic.” Everything Maggie does comes out of a sincerely-felt – if slightly selfish – desire to be authentic and live truthfully while not having anyone get mad at her. It’s emblematic of a generation full of people who are re-discovering and re-inventing How To Be A Person while ignoring all the models that came before. It’s messy and screwed-up and sometimes stupid-looking, but there’s an optimism to it, too. There’s a sense that we can all cut our own paths through the wilderness, even if we mess it up and go the wrong way.

Written by Katherine Murray.

It’s no Frances Ha, but this romantic comedy directed by Rebecca Miller takes full advantage of its cast, including Greta Gerwig’s trademark brand of awkward charm.

If there’s one criticism I would make about Maggie’s Plan, it’s that the story is a little bit too complicated. When the film starts, we’re dropped into some pretty blunt exposition about how Gerwig’s character, Maggie, has come up with a plan to have a child through self-administered artificial insemination. The next 30 minutes or are devoted to a prologue that develops that idea by introducing us to an old acquaintance of Maggie’s who has now become a pickle baron and wants to be the sperm donor. Just as that seems to be gaining momentum, though, the film changes direction as Maggie falls in love with a married colleague, played by Ethan Hawke.

John – her colleague – is a would-be novelist trapped in a miserable marriage with superstar academic Georgette (Julianne Moore, with an extremely committed Danish accent). Just as she’s about to inseminate herself with the pickle man’s sperm, Maggie instead begins an affair with John, launching us three years into the future, where the action really begins.

In the near future of the main plot, Maggie and John live together with their daughter and she supports him while he works on his never-finished novel. Georgette has written a book about how their affair destroyed her life, and John and Georgette’s children shuffle back and forth between their parents. It doesn’t take Maggie long to figure out that John’s kind of a loser, once you get to know him well, and she soon hatches a plan to get him back together with Georgette, so that she doesn’t have to feel guilty for misguidedly wrecking their home.

The movie gets a lot more funny, purposeful, and creative once Maggie decides to offload John onto Georgette, but it takes a long time to get there. On top of that, as charming and likable as Greta Gerwig is in this and every role, Julianne Moore is the most entertaining person in this movie, and things pick up once she takes centre stage.

Like most romantic comedies, Maggie’s Plan isn’t especially daring in its social commentary – it’s designed to go down easy. The premise of the story – that Maggie would, ideally, like to be a mother without having a man involved – is never really explored beyond its value as a wacky situation, and the characters are drawn in such goofy, likable terms that none of the pain of divorce or failed relationships really seeps in.

The jokes that get the most traction – excepting the ones about winter in Canada, which were a hit with the crowd at TIFF – are mostly about the absurdities of writing and academia. John works in a super-specialized, esoteric field that no one understands but that is, nevertheless, outstandingly important to the handful of researchers he meets at conferences. His novel, when he first shares it with Maggie, is clearly a thinly-veiled story about his own life and how oppressive he finds it to live with a woman who’s always breaking out in stress-related rashes.

The central plot, when we finally get to it, is a nice twist that balances a sense of realism with the same absurdity that underpins most of the jokes. It’s funny that Maggie’s plan is to get her loser boyfriend back together with his wife, but there’s also a sober realization that John seems different after the glow of new love has faded around him. Maybe the most radical thing Maggie’s Plan proposes – radical for a romantic comedy; not radical in life – is that sometimes, when you’re sure you’ve met The One, it turns out to be a mistake. No because anyone was lying to you – not because you were tricked somehow – just because our feelings about and perceptions of people change over time. Sometimes we act impulsively, because we feel certain in the moment, and then regret the impulsive things we’ve done.

It isn’t fair to compare Maggie’s Plan to Frances Ha, which was helmed by different people, but there’s a strange combination of worldliness and innocence that Greta Gerwig brings to her roles, and that makes a kind of sense in both films. Like Frances Ha, Maggie’s Plan resonates with the gen-Y, mumblecore picture of adulthood that says, “We’re all average, imperfect, confused people trying to stay afloat in a world that feels random and chaotic.” Everything Maggie does comes out of a sincerely felt – if slightly selfish – desire to be authentic and live truthfully while not having anyone get mad at her. It’s emblematic of a generation full of people who are re-discovering and re-inventing How To Be A Person while ignoring all the models that came before. It’s messy and screwed-up and sometimes stupid-looking, but there’s an optimism to it, too. There’s a sense that we can all cut our own paths through the wilderness, even if we mess it up and go the wrong way.

Maggie’s Plan picked up a distribution deal with Sony after it premiered at TIFF, so there’s a chance it will end up in a theatre near you some time next year.

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

Slaying Dudes and Stealing Hearts: The Tell-All Sexuality of Mindy Lahiri

Sex positivity, for instance, is frequently presented in an oversimplified, inaccurate package of rampant promiscuity and generally assigned to a side female character, like a free-spirited best friend or sister. Meanwhile, the main character frequently serves as the antithesis to said behavior who is later rewarded with “true love.”

This guest post by Shannon Miller appears as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.

If there was ever a word that could best encompass the essence of the central character of The Mindy Project, it would be “unapologetic.” Mindy Lahiri (Mindy Kaling) is unapologetically confident in her abilities as a doctor. Her fashion is an unapologetic cacophony of bold colors and daring patterns that always inexplicably work. She makes no apologies for subscribing to her version of femininity, which includes a sizable obsession with romantic comedies, flawless selfies, and overpriced blowouts from trendy hair salons. She’s more than occasionally rude, prejudiced, and self-absorbed and probably should apologize for a great many of those instances, but rarely does. She refuses to be the underdog in medicine and in love, and would be the first to tell you that she has earned the right to a cinematic romance and all of the enviable, announcement-worthy sex that comes with it. To summarize: Mindy Lahiri is determined to have it all and to those who feel like that quest is a selfish or unrealistic one, well…sorry, not sorry.

The romantic comedy genre is often the target of harsh criticism bordering on blatant disrespect – as are many things that are considered inherently feminine – but there are certain critiques of mainstream efforts that I do feel are worth examining, like the recycling of/lazy approach to certain tropes. Sex positivity, for instance, is frequently presented in an oversimplified, inaccurate package of rampant promiscuity and generally assigned to a side female character, like a free-spirited best friend or sister. Meanwhile, the main character frequently serves as the antithesis to said behavior who is later rewarded with “true love.” There is a cluster of issues with this model, like the implication that the choice to entertain multiple partners is always a negative one. The most troubling concern for me, however, is the notion that an active sexual appetite and the desire or ability to be in a romantic, loving relationship are somehow mutually exclusive. While there are plenty of aspects of the genre that I adore, it is always disappointing to see sex positivity treated as a cautionary tale, or something within the protagonist that must be cured.

And you might assume that a woman who would potentially give her right arm to be Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally would adopt this particular school of thought. Nevertheless; Mindy’s dream of finding the perfect husband and father to her nine future daughters is only rivaled by her desire to have her world categorically rocked by a man with the penis of Michael Fassbender. Her pleasure doesn’t take a backseat to her relationship goals, nor are they necessarily treated as separate entities. In fact, Mindy folds her sensuality into her overall ideals of dating and monogamy.

Additionally, open sexual expression in professional women is not something that we get to see reflected in our network programing too regularly and when it is, it’s treated with ranging levels of discretion. We know that the decision to keep one’s sex life private or public is a personal choice and a right, but it can get problematic when our expression becomes shrouded in societal expectations until it’s presented as an absolute (i.e. “a lady must keep her sex life private” or “real women should openly discuss their sexuality”). Our brightly-hued protagonist , however, isn’t terribly caught up in anyone’s expectations of her in this regard; she’s far too busy informing her entire staff when then-boyfriend Cliff (guest star Glenn Howerton) is routinely “getting up in them guts” (“Danny Castellano is My Personal Trainor”) or proudly lauding the oral skillset of current boyfriend and fellow OB-GYN Danny Castellano (Chris Messina). Yes, there’s definitely a lack of consideration for the privacy of her sexual partners within this compulsive need to share. Still, what makes her frank ownership of her sexuality so engaging isn’t that it’s some theoretical example of how women “should” express themselves, but a refreshing exercise in actual agency. Sure, she doesn’t have to broadcast her satisfaction with her and Danny’s sex life, but she’s going to and whether or not you decide to pull up a chair in the breakroom and listen (or tune in to her podcast dedicated to it, which she briefly hints to in the third season) is entirely up to you.

Her marque of sexuality also combats a lot of preconceived notions about sex positive women, in general. For instance, there exists an idea that sex positivity equates to absolute self confidence in all areas, which can include body image. While she is certainly accepting of her body to an extent, Mindy still holds onto some insecurity. In the season two episode “Danny Castellano is My Personal Trainor,” she divulges a few tricks to her coworkers that have kept her naked form a mystery to her partners over the years. This ultimately leads to her requesting the personal training services of Danny in an effort to get fit and gain enough confidence to allow Cliff to see her bare body. Her occasional reservations about her image don’t negate her desires, but they do shine a light on a certain vulnerability that isn’t always associated with sex positivity. Another popular assumption is that “sex positive” is synonymous with “adventurous,” or that those who identify as such are open to anything. It’s a misconception that can lead to events similar to those of season three’s polarizing episode “I Slipped,” which sparked a vital discussion about consent and in-relationship boundaries after Danny mistakenly assumes that Mindy is far more amenable to anal sex than she realistically is. She resists the false equivalencies that tend to strip much of the nuance and humanity from the sex positive movement, keeping an otherwise radical character somewhat relatable.

Though I champion Mindy as an audaciously sexual being, it’s important to recognize that there is a certain amount of privilege at work here (economic status, age, and ability, just to name a few) that makes her brand of sex positivity so largely celebrated. The fact that she is a young, wealthy, able bodied doctor not only impacts how she encounters inequality, but also the way her liberal sexual expression is positively received by others, whether it is intentional or not. It’s negligent to examine Mindy’s sexual identity and ignore the circumstances that afford her the benign label of “sex positive,” because that fortune simply isn’t awarded to all women, fictional or real.

That could be why The Mindy Project doesn’t protect its star from the sexist judgments of just about every one of her male counterparts, like her ex-boyfriend Cliff or previous fling and midwife/nemesis Brendan Deslaurier (Mark Duplass), both whom have taken foul jabs at the number of partners under Mindy’s belt (pun not entirely intended). This judgment is rife with hypocrisy – as slut-shaming typically is – when you consider how much Brendan prides himself on his open-minded approach to his own life, including casual sex, or how the men on the show experience virtually no judgment for their many previous conquests. This gross sexism is absolutely frustrating to witness, but it also grounds her experience in something that is accessible to many women. I may never personally relate to the glamorous life of a successful surgeon in Manhattan, but the indignation she feels when some guy tries to disgrace her for daring to enjoy sex, especially when he has no qualms about flaunting his own desirability, feels very damn familiar. How dare you, indeed.

We’re beginning to witness something really cool in sitcom television: genuine, recognizable complexity in women. Seeing a woman play both the helpless romantic and the unabashed sex enthusiast isn’t a revolutionary concept, nor is Mindy Lahiri the first to do it. I am, however, thrilled to consume quality programming that shows us thriving in our intricacies. My hope is that the future of TV includes more characters like Mindy: intelligent women armed with crass jokes, lavish fantasies of love, and a killer wardrobe.

Shannon Miller’s passions include bossy women, social justice, and her two-year-old daughter’s version of “Let It Go”. Her hatred of raisins is non-negotiable. You can read her thoughts regarding representation in media on her blog Televised Lady Bits or follow her on Twitter @Phunky_Brewster.

‘Trainwreck’s Unexpected Dose of The Feels

‘Trainwreck’ made me cry. As in weep. I’m not talking about my eyes welling up, or having to furtively swipe a single tear off my cheekbone, but full on is-there-snot-leaking-from-my nose CRYING. I’m sitting there in the theater wondering if there was some alternate trailer for this movie cut to “Everybody Hurts” that I missed. And hoping I’m not ruining my eye makeup. [I did.]

Amy Schumer and Bill Hader in 'Trainwreck' — Amy Schumer and Bill Hader in ‘Trainwreck’

Trainwreck, WE HAD A DEAL. I go see you opening weekend instead of Ant-Man, you provide me with two hours of an effervescent blend of rom-com sweetness and dick jokes. Nowhere in this negotiation was there any discussion of GENUINE EMOTIONS. I didn’t sign up for this.

Trainwreck made me cry. As in weep. I’m not talking about my eyes welling up, or having to furtively swipe a single tear off my cheekbone, but full on is-there-snot-leaking-from-my nose CRYING. I’m sitting there in the theater wondering if there was some alternate trailer for this movie cut to “Everybody Hurts” that I missed. And hoping I’m not ruining my eye makeup. [I did.]

Things start off promising. I laughed out loud when we saw that Amy had a job writing for a magazine. Job in publishing is the free space in Rom-Com Bingo. That Amy writes for a grody men’s magazine called S’Tuffed signaled to me we were gonna get all the rom-com tropes but subverted in the same way our hard-drinking sexually-capricious heroine deviates from your standard female lead. That doesn’t happen. Hardly any other spaces on Rom-Com bingo get filled. There isn’t even a Meet Cute.

Amy doesn't like spooning. — Amy doesn’t like spooning.

Amy and her romantic interest Aaron (Bill Hader) Meet Normal when she interviews him for a story for the magazine. They interact like normal humans who genuinely get along (well, exceptionally funny normal humans). They start dating, and there are some hiccups because Amy isn’t used to Real Relationships, but those hiccups don’t even result in any wacky misunderstandings. When Amy and Aaron get to their necessary third act near-breakup, it looks like a real relationship struggling because of interpersonal differences. Ugh, real life.

Meanwhile, in Trainwreck‘s most striking departure from the rom-com model, Amy has lots of stuff going on her life aside from dating this dude. Most notably, her complicated relationships with her family. Amy and her younger sister Kim (Brie Larson) get along, but Amy has trouble relating to Kim’s stable family life, with a square husband (Mike Birbiglia) and an oddly well-behaved stepchild. There’s further conflict between Amy and Kim as they deal with moving their father, who has multiple sclerosis, into assisted living. [Perhaps you can guess where the weeping kicks in.] The sister relationship in Trainwreck is as real and recognizable as the romance, if not more so. Schumer and Larson really nail the complicated interplay of jealousy and judgment between Amy and Kim.

There are also dick jokes. Trainwreck is very funny. Amy Schumer brings her magic, and the supporting cast is full of delightful oddball characters. I particularly liked a (TAN!) Tilda Swinton as Amy’s sociopathically brash editor and LeBron James as an extremely sensitive and supportive best friend to sports doctor Aaron. [Bill Hader is quite notably the straight man throughout, but he’s Bill Hader so he still gets in some big laughs.]

LeBron James as LeBron James is one of the comedic highlights of ‘Trainwreck’

Somehow, Trainwreck pulls off segueing between the risque comic bits we all came for and its unexpected side of pathos and heartbreak. While Judd Apatow’s confident direction deserves some of the credit, I think the most important factor here is Schumer’s impressive acting chops. She’s charismatic and funny enough that she should be a movie star even if she can’t really act, but she can. I hope this is the first of many Amy Schumer movies.

But next time I see one, I will adjust my expectations and bring along a pack of tissues.

Robin Hitchcock is a writer based in Pittsburgh, where there was a rather chilly reception to the scene where LeBron James talks about how great Cleveland is.

Why ‘Pretty Woman’ Should Be Considered a Feminist Classic

Whether we believe Vivian’s “white knight” fantasy is cheesy is beside the point; a film in which a woman explicitly negotiates the terms she wants for her relationship, and displays willingness to pursue her goals independently if those terms aren’t met, cannot be considered patriarchal.

This is a guest post by Brigit McCone.

Pretty Woman has already been reviewed negatively by Bitch Flicks as “one of the most misogynist, patriarchal, classist, consumerist, and lookist movies ever to come out of Hollywood” and by sex workers for portraying prostitution unrealistically and romanticizing the patronizing “Captain Save-a-Ho” client’s rescuer fantasy. There is justice to these criticisms, but I would like to examine the film more positively from another angle. Pretty Woman consistently shows greater respect for the bodily autonomy of its heroine, Vivian (Julia Roberts), than most traditional portrayals of romance and most feminist portrayals of prostitution. The debate whether Pretty Woman should be considered a feminist classic cuts to the heart of feminism itself: is it a liberation movement that prioritizes the freedom and agency of women above all, or a dogma that dictates gender roles to women? To explore this question more fully, I’d like to address the most common criticisms leveled at Pretty Woman:

Pretty Woman Glamorizes Prostitution!

It says something about our common perception of sex work that the film most often accused of glamorizing prostitution should open with a “dead hooker in a dumpster,” before our heroine is punched in the face and sexually assaulted by a creep who screams, “She’s a whore, man!” when challenged. Would a film be accused of glamorizing accountancy if it opened with a bankrupted accountant leaping to his death from the upper window of an office block? If anything, Pretty Woman may be accused of glamorizing the exit from prostitution, by making a future of monogamy with a patronizing rescuer-john into an unrealistically attractive option. The glossy, Hollywood production values of the film may glamorize prostitution, but only in the sense that Apocalypse Now glamorizes warfare, or Wall Street glamorizes capitalism. I suspect that those who claim to be disturbed by Pretty Woman‘s “glamorizing” of prostitution are actually more disturbed by these key assertions: that a prostitute is an individual, that prostitution is work comparable to other forms of labor and that abuse of a prostitute is the sole responsibility of the abuser.

Vivian’s individuality is shown in Pretty Woman as she proves stereotypical assumptions wrong. She does not do drugs; her backstory involves some bad relationships but no explicit sexual trauma; her intelligence repeatedly surprises listeners. Arguably, this marks Vivian as the exceptional “tart with a heart” cliché, who deserves to be loved and rescued because she is “special” and “not like the others.” I would argue that the treatment of Kit de Luca complicates this reading. Through Vivian, we are encouraged to sympathize and feel solidarity with Kit, a streetwise prostitute and drug addict. Vivian gives Kit a large sum of money at the end of the film, respecting her right to choose whether to spend it on her drug habit. Vivian never dictates life choices to Kit, only supports her self-esteem and encourages her to regard herself as having potential to define her own dreams. Through Vivian’s attitude to Kit, the viewer is encouraged to extend their respect for Vivian’s agency to the agency and individual potential of all sex workers.

Sex worker advocacy groups have long claimed (and it’s now being discussed by Amnesty International and the World Health Organization) that the most effective way to combat trafficking, abuse, and other hazards of prostitution is by decriminalizing it and recognizing it as work, entitled to the same health and safety protections as any other labour. By repeatedly comparing Vivian’s work as a prostitute with Edward’s (Richard Gere’s) corporate work, Pretty Woman reinforces this message, albeit in cutesy Hollywood style. Vivian’s backstory also notably emphasizes that her reason for becoming a sex worker was her desire for financial autonomy and her struggle to pay rent.

Finally, virtually all cinematic depictions of sexual assaults on sex workers fall into one of two categories: those that pay no attention to the abuser’s character and treat him (almost always “him”) as a faceless “symptom of prostitution,” reinforcing the victim-blaming narrative that the heroine attracted inevitable assault by her choice of profession, or those that center the abuser as an “anti-hero” while treating the sex worker as disposable. Pretty Woman does neither. When Stuckey assaults Vivian at the climax of the film, we are already well-acquainted with both characters and understand the assault as a direct expression of Stuckey’s insecure manhood, repulsive entitlement and poisonous resentments, while the assault’s impact on Vivian is sympathetically centered. By allowing us to know both would-be rapist and intended victim, Pretty Woman succeeds in resisting victim-blaming and suggests that the assault of sex workers is an unjust and inexcusable act that reflects the character of the abuser. For that alone, Pretty Woman should be considered a feminist classic.

Pretty Woman Is Materialist!

As a film in which the monetary value of sex and companionship is negotiated, Pretty Woman is inevitably about materialism. But this does not necessarily mean that it is uncritically materialist. The film makes a point of highlighting how impersonal wealth is: “Stores are never nice to people, they’re nice to credit cards.” Vivian’s famous, triumphant confrontation with the shop assistants – “You work on commission, right? Big mistake!” – might be read as glorifying her newfound superiority as rich woman, but it satisfies because it allows Vivian to confirm that the shop assistants were judging her credit card all along. The scene shows Vivian that her personal worth is irrelevant to society’s hostile treatment of her, building her self-esteem. Since Vivian empowers herself in other scenes by implausibly rejecting cash payment to assert personal worth, this anti-materialist interpretation of her shopping triumph feels correct. Pretty Woman repeatedly highlights ironic contradictions between the performance of wealth and the personal self. Edward performs wealth by purchasing the penthouse as status symbol, but he cannot enjoy it as he’s personally afraid of heights. His elite peers can purchase opera tickets as status symbols, but Vivian can appreciate opera as personal taste – by choosing “La Traviata,” an opera about a sex worker, the film also highlights the ironic contrast between society’s mindless appreciation of sex worker pathos in elite entertainment and their mindless hostility to sex workers in life.

Elements in Pretty Woman satirizing materialism, and exploring the hazards of prostitution, are hangovers from the original script, $3000, in which Vivian was a drug addict and discovered Kit overdosed at the film’s end. That version might seem “edgier,” but is it truly edgy to echo and reinforce society’s dominant narrative of prostitution? By adapting $3000 into a commercial romcom, Disney accidentally spawned something far more challenging: a film in which prostitutes aren’t necessarily doomed, and men are individually responsible for their treatment of them. Wealth, likewise, is not presented as automatically good or bad in the film. It is his over-investment in wealth and status that drives Stuckey to become a vengeful would-be rapist. Money can destroy lives, or build “great, big boats.” Kit’s final choice, whether to spend her “scholarship fund” on her dream or her drug habit, shows that money has empowering potential but is no guarantee of happiness. If Pretty Woman‘s beautiful clothes and jewels distract from this message, that is a reflection of the viewer’s attitude to luxury, not the film’s.

Pretty Woman Is Patriarchal!

There can be few images more patriarchal than a white knight riding up to rescue his (usually comatose) princess, claiming her love as his inevitable reward. This is not, however, the ending of Pretty Woman. Pretty Woman ends with Edward role-playing Vivian’s explicitly requested fantasy, and thereby indicating willingness to comply with the conditions she laid down for their relationship. In fully accepting Vivian as his romantic partner, rather than conditionally accepting her as a mistress or object of pity, Gere echoes the “I like you the way you are, so what do I care how you got that way?” philosophy of Marilyn Monroe’s Bus Stop, another underrated affirmation of the bodily autonomy, emotional complexity, and romantic viability of promiscuous women. Whether we believe Vivian’s “white knight” fantasy is cheesy is besides the point; a film in which a woman explicitly negotiates the terms she wants for her relationship, and displays willingness to pursue her goals independently if those terms aren’t met, cannot be considered patriarchal. Whether we believe Edward is a slime-ball who looks like a peeled prawn in the bathtub is equally irrelevant; female emancipation must include the right to have questionable taste in men, or it is no true freedom. Gere serves here as a metaphor for sex work itself: whether one personally finds him icky should not distract from crucial issues of consent and agency.

Vivian displays her willingness to leave Edward and set boundaries on multiple occasions: when he embarrasses her by outing her sex worker status at a social gathering, she dictates the way she wishes to be treated; when he offers her the status of a mistress, she dictates the status of a full equal. Let us never forget that, when the prince rescues her, she rescues him right back. Pretty Woman should also be celebrated as one of the only romances to include explicit negotiation of condom use, initiated by the female sexual partner. By ultimately suggesting that a sex worker’s ethos of “we say who, we say when, we say how much” is the key to success in romantic relationships, Pretty Woman is deliciously subversive. A romantic “happy ending” only serves patriarchal goals if it is a reward, conditional on female compliance and chastity. If it becomes just an individual dream, that any hooker can define and negotiate for herself, then its coercive power collapses. That is the real reason why conservatives howl about the “glamorizing of prostitution” in Pretty Woman. That is why millions of women love and laugh with Pretty Woman worldwide. That is why Pretty Woman deserves to be considered a feminist classic.

Pretty Woman Is Heterosexist, White Supremacist, and Lookist!

Pretty Woman is about straight, white, conventionally pretty people, but it is not derogatory to other groups. While the film’s villain, Stuckey, is indeed short and balding, and this may fuel his competitive resentment toward Edward, Hector Elizondo’s hotel manager, Barney, is also somewhat balding, yet serves as the moral core of the story. Though nominally a supporting character, Elizondo delivers a master class in creating fully realized humanity with a few brushstrokes – subtly suppressed frustrations and resentments that co-exist with, and complicate, his character’s warmth and dignity, leading to a well-deserved Golden Globe nomination for the role. At the film’s end, an unnamed African-American demands the audience’s recognition for his humanity and dreams, while challenging them to define their own. Pretty Woman certainly marginalizes its minority characters, but it does not dehumanize them. For Hollywood, sadly, that remains a minuscule achievement.

Pretty Woman is not a realistic portrayal of prostitution; it is a Hollywood fairy tale and never claims to be otherwise. At the same time, the values that it embodies as fairy tale are both progressive and feminist: recognition of the agency and bodily autonomy of sex workers; categoric rejection of victim-blaming in assaults on sex workers; positive endorsement of a woman’s negotiating boundaries within romantic relationships; positive endorsement of the romantic potential of promiscuous women as life partners; positive endorsement of personal worth as founded on ethics, independent of wealth, education or sexual history. Pretty Woman is a beautiful freak; an accidental anarchy spawned from commercial compromise. To describe Pretty Woman as “anti-feminist,” or to fail to celebrate its feminism, is to prioritize the sexist surfaces of “whores” and “white knights” over real issues of agency, desire and consent. Big mistake. Big. Huge.

Brigit McCone always thought Vivian should have chosen Barney the hotel manager, but recognizes he’s probably married. She writes and directs short films, radio dramas and “The Erotic Adventures of Vivica” (as Voluptua von Temptitillatrix). Her hobbies include doodling and taking romcoms ridiculously seriously.

‘Fight Club’ As a Classic Romantic Comedy and Closeting Drama

What happened to the romcom? Apparently, men started to enjoy them. Should we feel flattered by this male appreciation of a genre created in its modern form by women like Jane Austen? Or insulted that male appreciation of the romcom can only occur by refusing to appreciate it as romcom? “You show me your sensitive side, then you turn into a total asshole.” Is that a pretty accurate description of the attraction and sneering rejection of the male audience for romcom?

This is a guest post by Brigit McCone.

Although it opens boldly with the statement “all of this: the guns, the bombs, the revolution… has got something to do with a girl named Marla Singer,” the romance plot of David Fincher’s cult masterpiece Fight Club (1999) is rarely treated as central. Partly, this reflects our cultural bias that the love interest of a male film (particularly one chock-full of testosterone) is incidental, where the love interest of a female film must be integral. Yet, perhaps, the most gleefully subversive statement of this gleefully subversive film is that it ultimately adds up to “Zen Buddhist Romantic Comedy. FOR MEN!” It is in this light that I would like to analyze Fight Club: as a classic romantic comedy structured by the template of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, and a drama of closeted sexuality on the template of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. Restoring the female and gay male origins of the film’s themes may raise interesting questions about the ways we interpret such similar subject matter so differently, depending on the speaker.

“This is cancer, right?”: The Meet-Cute

The meet-cute of Pride and Prejudice occurs at its first ball. Elizabeth Bennet, a character established by a series of laughing jokes and superior judgements at the expense of society around her, is dismissed in a single sentence by the superior and judgmental Mr. Darcy: “She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” The friction is established: it is the characters’ unbearable similarity that creates the irresistible irritation between them, sustained through tense debate and a famous dance as they struggle to resist each other. For Elizabeth, Darcy is that little scratch in the roof of her mouth that would heal, if only she could stop tonguing it. This was Austen’s great romcom innovation: where previous romance plots treat external problems as the only obstacles to true love, Austen’s protagonists are separated by their own flaws and lack of self-knowledge. Unlike Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew, in Pride and Prejudice there can be no question of one character’s submission, as they are the image of each other and their challenge is rather to submit to greater awareness of themselves. It is not surprising that a woman writer would develop the theme of similarity between male and female as the basis of attraction, where the male had a greater vested interest in asserting the charm of female weakness and subordination as the foundation of successful love. Fight Club, however, follows the feminine Austen mould. Our painfully unaware protagonist meets Marla memorably at a testicular cancer support group. The smoking woman’s unfitness to be there is as flamingly obvious as Darcy’s overbearing ego, while our hero’s secret, fraudulent testicular completeness is as carefully concealed as Elizabeth Bennet’s superiority complex. The narrator may even perceive himself to be faking while actually suffering from the same crippling emasculation as the group. Either way, it is the similarity between these two that drives their mutual irritation and banter for the first section of the film.

“I am Jack’s Raging Bile Duct”: Protagonist Rejects Love Interest

The first turn in the relationship comes when Marla reveals vulnerability by phoning the protagonist during a suicide attempt. He apparently rejects her, only to find the charismatic Tyler Durden has answered the call and bedded the girl. Feeling like “Jack’s Raging Bile Duct” gives our first hinted admission of the hero’s desire for Marla, but this period is marked by his sustained emotional and sexual rejection of her, based on his misunderstanding that she desires Durden, when Durden is in fact (SPOILER) an imaginary character created by our hero’s psychosis. Romantic misunderstanding caused by mental illness puts Fight Club in the tradition of Benny & Joon, As Good As It Gets, or even the spectrum of obsessive compulsive and neurotic behaviors displayed by the typical Meg Ryan protagonist. In other words, Fight Club’s use of dissociative identity disorder as romcom obstacle is an extreme example of a canonical romcom trend; it is personality flaw as romantic rival and allows Norton to spend the film’s middle section beating himself up for failing to be Brad Pitt. The effect is to shift the romantic relationship from a mutual friction towards the pursuit of a resistant, misunderstanding protagonist by an emotionally vulnerable love interest. Or, in other words, the same effect Austen generates by the misunderstandings that climax in Darcy’s proposal and rejection.

“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me”: Love Interest Rejects Protagonist

The second turn comes when Norton’s character realizes the source of the misunderstanding and his true feelings for Marla. By then, however, his cumulative mistakes make the relationship unsalvageable and Marla takes a bus out of his life. This may be compared with Darcy’s abandonment of Elizabeth following her sister’s elopement, as the moment at which “all hope is gone” and the heroine fully realizes her romantic desire only as the love interest seemingly leaves forever. For Elizabeth, this acceptance of Darcy as love object parallels her own acceptance of herself as flawed and arrogant, just as Norton’s character is only able to care for Marla through the recognition and acceptance of his flaws, crippling dissociative identity disorder among them.

“My eyes are open”: Sacrificing the Ego

Jane Austen had a dilemma. Her mirroring love interests, Darcy and Elizabeth, each needed to sacrifice their egos to be together. Darcy had achieved this by proposing to Elizabeth. Yet, the restraints placed on female behavior in the 19th century, which reduced woman to passive love object in most plots, prohibited Austen’s heroine the romantic agency required to sweep her man off his feet. So, she cheated. Introducing the figure of Lady Catherine DeBourgh as a test of pride, Austen required Elizabeth to resist denying her feelings for Darcy in the face of intense provocation. In effect, Lady Catherine allows Elizabeth to propose by proxy while suffering public humiliation. This public humiliation/proposal would become the clichéd heart of “the airport dash” in romcom lore. Fight Club offers an original spin. Our hero shoots himself in the face, a public disfigurement as well as painful sacrifice, to destroy the alter-ego who is a visible embodiment of the most toxic aspects of his pride. In that state of bloody vulnerability, Marla finds herself unable to reject him and the two hold hands as the phallic towers crumble before them.

“I”m free in all the ways that you are not”: The Closeting Drama

Apart from the central romance, there are two major concerns in Fight Club: philosophical debate between Norton’s hero and Tyler Durden, and the depiction of Durden’s dangerously seductive, corrupting influence on the wider world. The Picture of Dorian Gray opens with lengthy philosophical debate between Basil Hallward, the vulnerable, sincere artist and lover, and Henry Wotton, the cynical, corrupting wit and charmer. Their friendship seems odd, as Hallward disapproves of Wotton and Wotton scorns Hallward. In Fight Club, the relationship between the hero and his Durden is made clear: Tyler, with the face of “millionaire, movie god” Brad Pitt, is free in all the ways the hero is not, yet trapped by the hero’s imagination. Wilde explained the strangely static relationship between Hallward and Wotton in a similar way: “Basil Hallward is what I think I am; Lord Henry what the world thinks me.” In other words, Lord Henry is Hallward’s Durden: a romantically impervious, socially masterful alter-ego who effortlessly dominates and corrupts society, while Hallward is Wilde’s most open portrait of homosexual romantic vulnerability. The main thrust of The Picture of Dorian Gray is a war between alter-egos Wotton and Hallward for the soul of the vulnerable Dorian Gray. The main thrust of Fight Club is a war between alter-egos Tyler Durden and Jack’s Inflamed Sense of Rejection for the soul and body of the vulnerable Marla Singer.

Although this comparison illuminates Fight Club as closeting drama, in this case the closeting of male insecurity and romantic vulnerability, the contrasts say as much as the parallels. In The Picture of Dorian Gray, Hallward, whose feelings for Dorian are presented as noble, romantic and capable of saving him, is viewed by Dorian with pity and contempt for expressing a “friendship so coloured by romance,” then savagely stabbed to death, his social isolation affirmed by the fact that nobody notices his absence – the reels have changed but the film carries on with Wotton in the driving seat. The book shows the total corruption of Hallward’s loving image of Dorian (the portrait itself) and the triumph of the cynical values of Wotton at the expense of both the vulnerable, true self, and of the love interest. Where love dare not speak its name, the mask must devour the face. Fight Club takes its modern, heterosexual manhood on a journey from emasculating self-loathing and testicular cancer to violent nihilism and rebellion but, ultimately, reveals the source of their grievance to be a figment of their own imagination. The painful split between inadequate hero and super-cool alter-ego is shown to be farcically self-imposed when Marla dismisses the godlike Durden as “Mr. Jackass.” Where Dorian chooses Wotton, Marla Singer has chosen Jack’s Raging Bile Duct all along. The romantic reconciliation which concludes Fight Club was literally impossible for Wilde’s novel, already savaged by censors, which neatly illustrates the contrast between the self-imposed crisis of modern masculinity and the socially imposed crisis of gay identity in the past. It is Wotton and Hallward’s “Dorian Gray Club” that one does not talk about, and Fight Club that is free in all the ways Dorian Gray is not.

“I can’t get married, I’m a 30-year-old boy”: Recognizing Male Romantic Comedy

Male romantic comedy has always been a major part of the genre: consider Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night, Billy Wilder’s The Apartment, Hal Ashby’s Harold and Maude, or Woody Allen’s Annie Hall.These works generally enjoyed greater critical esteem than that accorded to female romcom directors such as Elaine May, Nora Ephron, Amy Heckerling, Darnell Martin, Sharon Maguire, Gurinder Chadha, or Nancy Meyers. Now, critical successes As Good As It Gets and Fight Club join a golden age of male romantic comedy: There’s Something About Mary, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Shallow Hal, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, (500) Days of Summer, Hitch, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, Wedding Crashers, Silver Linings Playbook, I Love You Phillip Morris, and Don Jon to name a few. And yet, in recent times, we have seen articles such as Tatiana Siegel’s 2013 piece for the Hollywood Reporter lamenting the “death” of the romantic comedy. What happened to the romcom? Apparently, men started to enjoy them. Should we feel flattered by this male appreciation of a genre created in its modern form by women like Jane Austen? Or insulted that male appreciation of the romcom can only occur by refusing to appreciate it as romcom? “You show me your sensitive side, then you turn into a total asshole.” Is that a pretty accurate description of the attraction and sneering rejection of the male audience for romcom?

Recognizing male romantic comedy as classic romcom is not only vital for a fuller appreciation of male romantic vulnerability, but also of female romantic comedy and gay male social comedy as more than “mere” romance and frivolity. As much as Fight Club, The Picture of Dorian Gray is a blistering critique of a decadent society that rewards toxic masculinity at the expense of true intimacy. As much as Fight Club, Pride and Prejudice is a psychological journey and a protagonist’s confrontation with and reconciliation with their own self. And, as much as any female romcom, Fight Club is a romance. And a damn funny one.

Brigit McCone has a degree in Russian and Drama, writes and directs short films and radio dramas and is the author of The Erotic Adventures of Vivica under her cabaret pseudonym Voluptua von Temptitillatrix. Her hobbies include doodling and irritating Fight Club fanboys.

‘Orange Is the New Black’: The Crime of Passion in Media

‘OITNB’ does not always blame the id. It also wonders whether larger societal forces are culpable too. Take, for instance, adorable Lorna (Yael Stone) a modern day zeitgeist for Bridezillas. As a compulsive shopper, she’s a victim of the consumer industrial complex that taught her happiness and fulfillment can be bought. When a cute man rejects her after one date, she realizes she can’t buy or scam her way into love so it triggers a fatal attraction in her. Pornstache’s adopted patriarchal mindset that women are merely pleasure objects leaves him jobless, in jail, and alone. Officer Healey’s misogyny leads him to procure a “traditional” wife via mail order, only to discover that true companionship can’t be bought or found through biased gender roles.

This is a guest post by Katrina Majkut.

Orange Is The New Black’s second season reveals more about the lives and crimes of its supporting characters. What lies at the heart of season two is not the misdeeds these women committed that account for their imprisonment, but the relationships surrounding them and their personal desires that ultimately contributed to it.

This is a recurring theme in Jenji Kohan’s work. Consider Kohan’s first breakthrough female character, Nancy Botwin in Weeds. Botwin, a dependent housewife, turns to drug dealing once she realizes her lifestyle choice left her financially destitute. Kohan, like many women before her – Simone de Beauvoir to Betty Friedan, iterates that the real crime is the one where women believe relationships are a means to an end.

The Atlantic’s Megan Garber argues that traditional Rom-Coms are a dying Hollywood genre because they don’t include contemporary online dating. I respectfully disagree; OITNB is arguably a new age Rom-Com (plus drama) that still operates on dial-up (Wi-Fi is too fancy for that prison). It merely takes the genre’s traditional trite heterosexual storylines, the romantic city backdrops, and the saccharine plots and puts them into solitary confinement. It then throws away the key.

OITNB reinvigorates this genre by exploring more dynamic and diverse relationships: platonic and romantic, internal and external. Unlike in Rom-Coms, sex is not a driving force in OITNB. It’s merely a perk and even then can lead to complications like Officer Bennett (Matt McGorry) and Dayanara’s (Dascha Polanco) pregnancy. And the show breaks new ground in this obsolete genre with its almost all-female cast. Rom-Coms want viewers to believe that problems will resolve themselves within a relationship; Kohan’s version suggests that’s where they start.

Piper (Taylor Shilling) lies at the heart of this theory. Season two reveals how much her relationship with Alex (Laura Prepon) has negatively impacted her life. However, Piper is not committing crimes in the name of her passion for Alex. In fact, we learn her poor decision-making stems from her relationship with her parents, their habit of obscuring the truth, and her father’s infidelity. Piper’s story makes a compelling argument that one’s nurturing is more influential over personal nature. Maria Ruiz (Jessica Pimental) supports this idea by begging her taciturn boyfriend to talk to their daughter so she grows into a well-adjusted child.

To what purpose Piper is driven to commit these crimes has yet to be revealed, but the question highlights OITNB’s most interesting angle on the new age Rom-Com genre – desire. Season two unveils that the characters’ relationships are merely conduits to attain more intangible, inherent passions like – power, safety, belonging, fortune, favor, excitement, loyalty, relevance, etc.

A bloody Piper on OITNB — A bloody Piper on *OITNB*

This is most evident with Season two newcomer, Vee (Lorraine Toussaint), who, rather than quietly ride her jail time out, is driven by a passion for power and sets out to take Red’s. She’s highly aware of her psychological needs… and others’, which is how she manages to manipulate several women into doing her bidding. She plays off these characters’ needs for family, connection and approval, like Taystee’s (Danielle Brooks), who despite her book smarts, turns to drug dealing in the pursuit of motherly love. Viewers quickly learn that one can only be as healthy and wise as the company one keeps.

That also includes the relationship people have with themselves. In OITNB’s subtle exploration of nature versus nurture, viewers are also shown a compelling argument that personal nature also influences decision-making. As nature drives needs, a person can easily become his or her own worst enemy. Take for instance formerly pro-choice Pennsatucky (Taryn Manning), who, eager for affection from an inattentive boyfriend, quickly switches sides when she realizes how to earn the esteem of the pro-lifers. She’s willing to permanently win their worship by taking the life of a clinic doctor. Sister Ingalls (Beth Fowler) continues to protest despite ones from the Catholic Church, because who is she without her activist conviction more so than without Jesus? Miss Rosa’s (Barbara Rosenblat) boyfriend introduced her to bank robbing, but it was after her first heist that she realized she had a knack for it.

OITNB does not always blame the id. It also wonders whether larger societal forces are culpable too. Take, for instance, adorable Lorna (Yael Stone) a modern day zeitgeist for Bridezillas. As a compulsive shopper, she’s a victim of the consumer industrial complex that taught her happiness and fulfillment can be bought. When a cute man rejects her after one date, she realizes she can’t buy or scam her way into love so it triggers a fatal attraction in her. Pornstache’s adopted patriarchal mindset that women are merely pleasure objects leaves him jobless, in jail, and alone. Officer Healey’s misogyny leads him to procure a “traditional” wife via mail order, only to discover that true companionship can’t be bought or found through biased gender roles.

Lorna & Suzanne "Crazy Eyes" in OITNB — Lorna and Suzanne “Crazy Eyes” in *OITNB*

None of these characters is committing crimes in the name of passion per se, but their unrequited desires are usually leading them toward a perpetual cycle of bad decisions, which, for most, result in crimes. With such skewed risk and reward results, viewers have to wonder if they’re aware of what drives their poor decisions.

The prison setting provides good insight into this. Stripped of life’s comforts, the prisoners are faced with meeting the basics of Maslow’s hierarchy. Meals and a roof are nominally provided, but their social and psychological needs remain elusive. It’s not that people in love do stupid things (though that can happen), but people are willing to assume certain risks if it means earning, winning, or attaining whatever it is that they are seeking. Whether the individual characters know these desires does not ensure their survival or success, which is perfectly captured in Vee’s final scene. Soso (Kimiko Glen) sums up the importance of well-rounded relationships: “We should be leaning on each other, finding support in our fellow prisoners. So we’re not isolated…. I need a friend.”

Viewers learn that community is necessary to survive inside prison, but more importantly outside too. Matriarch Red (Kate Mulgrew), who has struggled the most with family, power, and support, appears to be reaching this important arch. This becomes evident as she gathers with her estranged prison family to break bread and offer an olive branch. Her benevolence and selflessness is rubbing off on her family too, such as when Nicky seeks help with her sobriety, who then offers Lorna the recognition of love she’s always desired (even if it’s platonic). Red mirrors the sentiment Kohan is not so subtly reaching at – that failure is inevitable if we let unhealthy relationships and desires define us. Like jail, they can easily hold people back.

Kohan’s spin on female media dives much deeper into characters and relationships than the now-suffering traditional Rom-Com genre. Rom-Coms’ superficiality is its biggest crime, which ultimately led to its lack of popularity and box-office support. OITNB is a compelling game-changer by highlighting the true nature and depth of women’s desire and making their relationships secondary.

However, it’s important to bring up The Atlantic’s controversial article by Noah Berlatsky, “Orange Is the New Black’s Irresponsible Portrayal of Men,” who accuses OITNB from his seat of male privilege that “the problem is that the ways in which OITNB focuses on women rather than men seem to be linked to stereotypically gendered ideas about who can be a victim and who can’t.” It seems that OITNB has also shaken up the crime and punishment genre.

First, he couldn’t be more off the mark about people being overly generous in their sympathy toward female victims of violent crime. If he were right, rape on US campuses wouldn’t be such an egregious current event. His lack of sympathy for victims sounds eerily like victim blaming, but I digress. Secondly, neither OITNB, nor this article, is suggesting these women are victims of their own unfulfilled desires; many take pride in their crimes! The show is merely trying to get to the psychological root of the misdeeds and decisions and if the prisoners can learn from them.

What makes OITNB such compelling entertainment is the same substance that Berlatsky criticizes. The show redefines an entertainment genre and the traditional characterization of women and prisoners. Based on Berlatsky’s argument, for example, there wouldn’t be any dynamic movies featuring female CEOs because 95.2 percent of Fortune 500 CEO positions are filled by men and they’ve only ever been portrayed as Gordon Gekkos. So in Bertlatsky’s, world men deserve better portrayals first. That’s the thing he misunderstands about OITNB‘s psychoanalysis of desire–if we don’t understand what drives us, we run the risk of using our male privilege to ostracize and enrage minorities. ¿Comprende, Bertlatsky?

Media’s crime is portraying women or prisoners with limited scope and vapid storylines. Kohan’s desire to shake up two very stagnant media genres has left many feeling blindly robbed of a genre they once controlled, but for others it’s filling an empty gulf in entertainment. Season two begins to unravel the mysteries surrounding the inmates’ incarceration. It offers an intimate peek into how the nature of relationships is ultimately driven by personal desires. OITNB is honest in admitting that healthy, trustworthy, selfless, and supportive relationships are as elusive for everyone as that freedom all the inmates desire. But the real culprit is that passion, which without understanding, can get anyone in trouble in the first place.

Katrina Majkut (My’ kit) is the founder of www.TheFeministBride.com. It hopes to inspire a new generation of newlyweds who want unique and egalitarian wedding ideas to fit their modern lifestyles. It aims to empower couples to walk down the aisle as equals. As a writer, lecturer, and research-based artist, Majkut is dedicated to understanding and exploring social narratives and civil issues in Western marriage and wedding culture. She is represented by Carol Mann Agency in New York City. Please follow The Feminist Bride on Twitter @FeministBride and on Facebook.

‘They Came Together’ and the Sins of Romantic Comedy

It’s easy to look at the ads for ‘They Came Together’ and expect a straight romcom. The poster and the film are glossy and full of comedic stars. New York is so important to the story it’s like another character. The leads, Amy Poehler and Paul Rudd as Molly and Joel, play exaggerations of the roles they could be cast in in any other film. She’s the big-hearted and dangerously clumsy proprietor of a quirky little candy shop that gives all its proceeds to charity, while he’s a big candy executive who dreams of a simpler life, obsesses over sex, and threatens to shut down Molly’s shop. They get together. That much is obvious once you hear it’s a romantic comedy.

It’s easy to look at the ads for They Came Together and expect a straight romcom. The poster and the film are glossy and full of comedic stars. New York is so important to the story it’s like another character. The leads, Amy Poehler and Paul Rudd as Molly and Joel, play exaggerations of the roles they could be cast in in any other film. She’s the big-hearted and dangerously clumsy proprietor of a quirky little candy shop that gives all its proceeds to charity, while he’s a big candy executive who dreams of a simpler life, obsesses over sex, and threatens to shut down Molly’s shop. They get together.

That much is obvious once you hear it’s a romantic comedy.

They Came Together, the latest from David Wain and Michael Showalter, the team behind cult pic Wet Hot American Summer, intends to parody these easy conventions, and though an enjoyable film, it’s debatable what it actually accomplishes. Comedy is a difficult matter to critique as so much of what we find humorous is specific to us as individuals, as well as to factors like our culture, class, and age, that it’s nearly impossible for one person to stand up on a soapbox and declare whether or not something is funny. Adding to that, They Came Together is a polarizing film by nature. Its humor is absurdist and jokes zig and zag completely out of left field, sometimes feeling more like an extended sketch than a feature film. There are subtle visual gags, highly telegraphed centerpiece jokes, clever observations about life both in the real world and in the sunny world of the romantic comedy, plenty of raunch and some of those repetition bits that run just long enough to stop being funny and then to get funny again, thrown in for good measure. In short, it’s a comedy grab bag for which both rants and raves are justified.

Joel is given advice by friends, A-list comedians who each represent a different archetype

Much of the romcom references are bang on. The basic plot, cribbed from You’ve Got Mail, pegs an uptight man against a free-spirited woman and tells us he needs her to help him believe in his dreams, while she needs him to help her become more grounded. To stress this point, they’re even given wrong partners as contrast, ever-literal accountant Eggbert (Ed Helms) and perfectly put together Tiffany (Cobie Smulders). All the genre staples we know and are growing tired of are there: Joel gets advice from basketball playing pals who each represent a different point of view (and tell us out-right which idea they represent), they bond over their “quirky” shared tastes, in this case a love of fiction books and a hatred for the complications of modern life, spread their clothes all over Molly’s apartment while making out and fall in love through a montage that shows them buying fruit and playing in fallen leaves.

Joel and Molly fall in love through a montage of cliche activities

There are also some new and intriguing points made by the film about how race and class are portrayed in earnest examples of the genre. For existence, Molly’s assistant is Black woman who appears to have no life other than helping her, even picking up the phone in one scene and assuming the call is for Molly before even asking. Later into the film, it is revealed that Molly has a young son, and has such an easy time being a single mother that his presence in her life wasn’t even noticeable until it was pointed out. The movie fantasy of easy success and money is also briefly deconstructed in the end, when the main character’s business fails and cannot be salvaged.

With the film’s absurdist style, the plot and characters can’t really be dissected at length. But a romcom parody is particularly interesting for its power to point out annoying or offensive staples of the genre, in particular, their portrayals of women. Though a genre geared toward women, female characters in romantic comedies are uniformly portrayed as cardboard cut-outs, needy bleeding hearts or catty and conniving villains. In They Came Together, the one-dimensional nature of the female characters is pointed out as part of the joke. Molly’s business is failing because of her compulsion to give candy away and she never once thinks of changing the way she runs things. Likewise, Tiffany tells Joel point-blank that she is untrustworthy. In contrast, Joel is a complicated character who supports his younger brother, is conflicted about his job, and has strange feelings for his grandmother.

Joel’s ex Tiffany warns him to be suspicious of her morals while seducing him — Joel’s ex Tiffany warns him to be suspicious of her motives while seducing him

The difference between men and women is also boiled down to one point, that men are easy-going and order from the menu, while women are needlessly complicated (like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally) and have impossible specifications for how their food must be prepared. This idea, a common one in romantic comedies that has even bleed into real life expectations, is clearly posed as ridiculous.

But one target the film should have paid more attention to is the derision of the romantic comedy genre without our collective culture. When a new romcom opens, most of us expect it to be terrible, sight unseen. Horror films, another genre that can be cheaply and quickly made, don’t suffer the same derision, perhaps because the genre is generally geared toward a masculine audience. While bad horror is recognized as such, masters like John Carpenter and Wes Craven are still routinely praised, even by film buffs who are not major fans of the horror genre. Meanwhile, giants of romcoms like the late Nora Ephron, are seen as bi-words for schmaltzy “chick” movies no serious person would admit to liking. In my own life, I can’t recall the last time I heard a woman admit to a fondness for the likes of Sleepless in Seattle or Never Been Kissed without adding “as a guilty pleasure” in a knee-jerk reaction.

The ladies of ‘game-changing’ romantic comedy Bridesmaids — The ladies of ‘game-changing’ romantic comedy *Bridesmaids*

That was a big part of the wild success of Bridesmaids and its reputation as a game-changer: while a lot of the story presented wasn’t new, it was the first romantic comedy in a long time that we were “allowed” to like as something more than the garbage film meant for watching alone in sweatpants while nursing a carton of Hagen Daas.

Somehow it got drummed into our heads that the romantic comedy isn’t meant for us.

I’m making some wild generalizations about you as a reader here, but I’m going to guess that you’re something like me. You consider yourself smart, cynical and wary of the phase, “Well if you didn’t like it, that means you didn’t get it.” I’m not generally a fan of romcoms, but I’m starting to wonder how much of that distaste comes from the idea that they’re not “serious movies,” that they’re not worth my time, that I’m not supposed to like them. Sure, I’m turned off by the cutesy modern touches like klutzy women, quirky businesses, the plague of architect love interests (one trope missing from They Came Together) and honestly by the term “romcom” itself, but none of those things are that tied up in my ideas of modern womanhood and my comportment. I roll my eyes at them and I’m over it.

A romantic comedy where characters always succeed regardless of business sense or marketability and end up up happily ever after, is like a fairy tale to me; I don’t feel held to the expectations of women presented in them. But what I do feel constrained by is the idea of a universal taste, the final opinions formed in almost unspoken consensus that this show is a masterpiece or this show is crap, wherein anyone who disagrees loses all credibility.

Genres that cater to women are already disadvantaged in this respect as they’re seen as veering away from the universal, generally masculine path of canonized media. No matter how much important journalism or honest snapshots of our lives women’s magazines present, they’re still seen as trash. Female bloggers that write in a colloquial style that mirrors their style of speech and engages with their female readers are seen as unserious and dumb. Likewise, Girls was only acceptable as a good show after it gained the approval of young male viewers and with the approval of bro-humorist Judd Apatow.

There’s joke I’ve heard a lot recently: “I’m not like most girls”- most girls.

For most young educated women, romantic comedies are for those others, the stereotypical girl we imagine existing somewhere (basically characters played by Mindy Kaling), the one we’re deathly afraid of appearing be. We claim not to diet, we have female friends, we would never force a date to see the latest Jen Aniston movie, we call ourselves low maintenance. Sure, we want someone to love but we don’t see it as the ultimate goal in life.

But in truth? I’m sure we’ve all got “girly” things we truly love that compromise a good portion of identity. And it shouldn’t be shameful to like things that are supposed to be for women, just like shouldn’t be shameful to reject them or to like media geared toward both masculine and feminine audiences.

As in most romantic comedies, Joel and Molly have a meet cute when they wear the same costume to a halloween party

It’s probably taking things too far to say I hope They Came Together will change filmmaking or consumption; it’s a light comedic parody without activist intentions. Still, it’s the kind of film that, intentionally or not, makes you think about what we’re used to seeing on the screen and wonder why we have accepted certain ideas presented to us without complaint. Like why is one genre for women and another for men/everyone?

It hasn’t always been this way. Past romantic comedies from the 30s, even through the 90s where much of the tropes in They Came Together originated from, have been acclaimed as serious films, targeted to a universal audience and even Academy Award-ed. Many of these films were even posed from a masculine point of view, following a male character’s quest for love instead of a woman’s.

Sure They Came Together is parody, but despite its basic romantic comedy structure, it’s aimed at any audience appreciative of its brand of comedy and assumes even male viewers are familiar with the genre. Is it hopelessly naive to wish that the very existence of this film, which takes for granted that the audience will recognize romantic comedy tropes and see them as stale, will lead to some innovations?

See Also: The Romantic Comedy is Dead

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Elizabeth Kiy is a Canadian writer and freelance journalist living in Toronto, Ontario.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Wedding Week: ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’: 20 Years Later And Still So Far To Go

Four Weddings and a Funeral movie poster

Written by Myrna Waldron.

I was 7 years old the first time I watched this film. My family is ethnically British, and I was raised on British-style comedy like Monty Python. My parents shrugged off the R rating–sex and swear words, what’s the big deal? Admittedly, there are few films I’ve seen that have quite as many f-bombs…so maybe we can blame this one for my terrible pottymouth. But there is something to be said for the “It’ll go right over their heads!” argument. I knew Charles and Carrie were having sex. I knew what the f-word meant. But what I didn’t realize until I was quite a bit older…was that two members of the main cast were a gay couple. And their relationship was the strongest one in the entire film.

Although there are no people of colour in the cast (disappointing, but not surprising for a British film seeing as 90% of the population is white), Four Weddings & A Funeral is very progressive for a romantic comedy. Romantic comedies have a sordid reputation as the bastions of white heteronormativity, with only gorgeous people allowed to be seen on film. Lack of racial minorities aside (and don’t think I’m dismissing it; the all-white cast is an issue) we have LGBT representation in Matthew and Gareth, representation of people with disabilities in David (who is deaf-mute and played by a deaf actor), and Gareth is also a portly gentleman with a fuzzy greying beard–the film remembers old and fat people exist!

The traditional romantic comedy relationship is flipped, also. Stereotypically, the frazzled beautiful white woman just can’t find a man! And she’s got contrived flaws, and she has to chase the men in her life, etc. In Four Weddings’ case, it’s Hugh Grant’s character Charles who is lovelorn. He is surrounded by celebrations of heteronormativity–he has to attend weddings practically every weekend. And he feels that there is something wrong with him for not wanting to get married like almost everyone else does, that maybe he’s a commitmentphobe. He doesn’t realize until the end of the film that it’s not a lifelong commitment he’s avoiding, it’s the institution of marriage and the wedding hoopla that he hates. Upon meeting Carrie, he almost instantly realizes she’s the girl for him. Carrie is an American who worked for Vogue, and her approach to relationships is distinctly American and meant to contrast with the rather reserved British approach. Refreshingly, she’s got a very healthy sex life (in one memorable scene, she recounts all 33 of her lovers) and Charles does not judge her at all for it (though he’s somewhat embarrassed his own “number” is much smaller). Neither does the film condemn her from sleeping with Charles again while engaged to another man. It’s just a sign that she’s marrying the wrong man for her.

People tend to make fun of Hugh Grant’s stuttering style of delivering his lines, but I find it adds to his character and makes the dialogue more realistic. Charles seems to be known not only for being perpetually tardy but for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Who hasn’t stuttered and verbally fumbled while trying to talk to a person you’re strongly attracted to? Both Charles and Carrie have realistic flaws but are still sympathetic protagonists. Carrie’s fatal flaw is her indecisiveness when it comes to relationships. It perhaps factors into why she’s had so many lovers, but her flaw is NOT that she’s had a lot of lovers. That’s a progressive and feminist way to approach relationships and has a touch of sex positivity as well.

Speaking of progressiveness, let’s turn back to the minority characters in the main cast. Other than Gareth & Matthew’s relationship, I find the story of David and Serena’s relationship one of the most touching. Serena spots David at one wedding and is instantly attracted to him. She asks Matthew to tell her about him, admitting she thinks he’s “a bit of a dish.” (Matthew agrees, one of many signals that he’s gay.) You can tell that it’s true love because she learns sign language just so she can communicate with him. During the fourth wedding when David gives Charles an “out” from marrying Henrietta, a subtle indicator of the strength of their relationship is that she is able to follow along with David’s signing and reacts to it accordingly. Seeing deaf-mute characters (or even disabled characters in general) is rare enough in a movie, let alone watching a love story for one of them.

The main cast of Four Weddings and a Funeral

When it comes to Gareth & Matthew, even the main characters admit that their relationship was stronger and had a deeper commitment than anyone else’s. After Gareth’s funeral, Charles says to Tom that, in retrospect, Gareth & Matthew were married all along. And oh god, how that pained me. I don’t really know how I didn’t realize that they were romantically involved until I grew up, but that might just be because no one explicitly says, “Gareth and Matthew are in a relationship.” It’s all implied–strongly implied, I’ll grant you, but never explicitly stated.

Twenty years later, LGBTQ couples are able to enter civil partnerships in England…but they’re not allowed to call it marriage (yet?). These two men, who clearly loved each other completely, had to attend wedding after wedding but could never celebrate their love for each other legally. Instead of a wedding, they’re separated by death. Gareth appeared to be a hard-living man–poor diet, smoking, drinking, overly exuberant dancing, and clearly in late middle age. But it seems to add a further twist to the knife that their love is denied in two separate ways. It is at least uplifting that in the sequence of photographs at the end of the film, we see that Matthew has found love again, and it even looks like they’re holding a commitment ceremony.

As a good friend of mine has pointed out, a lot of people (mostly straight allies) seem to think the SCOTUS’ striking down of Prop. 8 and DOMA is not only a major celebration, but the be-all and end-all of queer rights. I mean, it’s good that legal discrimination against same-sex couples has been struck down, but it doesn’t mean that every state is suddenly going to legalize same-sex marriage, nor does it do anything to solve other LGBTQ issues, such as hate crimes. It’s also not exactly thrilling that DOMA was written into law by a supposedly liberal politician in the first place. (Bill Clinton, for those who don’t know.)

There’s still so much left to change. We still have so far to go. The situation of queer rights in the UK isn’t great–not only are they allowed only civil partnerships instead of marriage, the rights of trans* people, for example, are not only being ignored but outright trampled upon. A recent judgement on a “sex-by-deception” case cited gender as a legitimate reason for pressing charges, but age, marital status, wealth or HIV status are not. UK Law also allows a spouse to annul their marriage if their partner possesses a Gender Recognition Certificate and doesn’t tell them beforehand. Comparatively, other people do not have to disclose other parts of their history (criminal status, previous marriages, etc) the way that trans* people are legally forced to. And cis “LGB” individuals seem to be willing to throw the “T” under a bus, just so they can climb up the ladder a little higher. I’m hopefully preaching to the choir when I say this, but that’s BULLSHIT. I’m proud of how comparatively progressive my native Canada is in comparison, but we still have a very long way to go in terms of trans* rights.

Twenty years after Four Weddings and a Funeral, it strikes me that very little has changed. If this film were made today, Gareth and Matthew could enter into a formal civil partnership, but regardless, Charles may not have realized just how deep and committed their relationship had been all along. It’s still very bitter and chilling that it was the committed gay couple that was separated by death. The real theme of this film isn’t weddings and marriage, it’s commitment. Twenty years later, there’s still so little representation of disabled people in films. I honestly can’t think of another film I’ve seen with a deaf-mute character. There should have been more racial minorities in the cast, even in minor roles, instead of just one 5-second shot of a black extra at the funeral. And as comparatively progressive as this film is, all it does is make me think how ridiculous American films look. A film made in a country with a fraction of the US population is more representative of minorities than most films made in a country with 316 million goddamn people. I can’t help thinking that maybe romantic comedies would not nearly have as bad a reputation as they do if they branched out even a little bit and stopped being frivolous celebrations of solely cis white able-bodied heteronormativity.

I also can’t help thinking that although we’ve come so far…we still have so very far to go.

P.S. I was unable to make animated gifs this time around as my only copy of the film is in Blu-Ray, and my laptop can’t read it.

Myrna Waldron is a feminist writer/blogger with a particular emphasis on all things nerdy. She lives in Toronto and has studied English and Film at York University. Myrna has a particular interest in the animation medium, having written extensively on American, Canadian and Japanese animation. She also has a passion for Sci-Fi & Fantasy literature, pop culture literature such as cartoons/comics, and the gaming subculture. She maintains a personal collection of blog posts, rants, essays and musings at The Soapboxing Geek, and tweets with reckless pottymouthed abandon at @SoapboxingGeek.

Wedding Week: ‘Coming to America’ and Coming to Terms with New Marriage Traditions

Coming to America movie poster.

Written by Leigh Kolb

When I was a kid, Coming to America was one of my favorite movies. I’m not quite sure exactly what it was–maybe I just thought Eddie Murphy was really cute–but I’d like to think that I was drawn to its message of valuing female intelligence and independence over subservience.

Coming to America was released in 1988, and helped round out Eddie Murphy’s rise to stardom in the 1980s, from Saturday Night Live to Beverly Hills Cop. While Murphy played side-kicks in many of his early films, Coming to America was unique because it featured Murphy as a romantic lead, and a cast dominated by African Americans.

The premise of the film–a wealthy African prince travels to America to live modestly and find true love, not an arranged marriage–isn’t particularly groundbreaking, but the film worked because it was (and is, sadly) rare to find a black man as a romantic lead, especially in a blockbuster-friendly romantic comedy.

The film begins by taking the audience over the sweeping landscape of the fictional African country of Zamunda, while a South African choir sings. As the camera focuses in on a palace, it’s important to note the stark contrast of this depiction of an African country against the frequent portrayals of Africa in American media, which showcase Africa as a continent in need of our saving (after all, they don’t even have snow at Christmas time).

The royal family of Zamunda: Prince Akeem Joffer, King Jaffe Joffer and Queen Aeoleon.

Prince Akeem (Murphy) wakes up on the morning of his birthday, and he’s attended to by male and female servants (from royal bathers–beautiful women who clean the “royal penis”–to royal wipers in the bathroom). Akeem doesn’t seem comfortable with any of this, and even requests to use the bathroom alone. At breakfast, his father, King Jaffe Joffer (James Earl Jones), assumes his son must be excited to meet the wife they’ve arranged for him to marry.

Akeem acts unsure, and finally speaks out against being doted upon and the idea that a woman would be chosen for him for his rank, not because she loves him. The tradition of arranged marriage doesn’t sit well with him, and his youthful rebellion takes the form of wanting to fall in love with a woman on his own terms and to be able to be more independent.

Semmi (Arsenio Hall), Akeem’s friend and attendant, serves as a foil to Akeem’s noble goodness. He is baffled that Akeem wants a woman with an opinion instead of having a woman who would follow his every command. Semmi assures Akeem that his wife need only have a “pretty face.”

Akeem asks him, “So you’d share your bed with a beautiful fool?” Semmi says that that’s the tradition for men in power. Akeem says that it’s also tradition for times to change.

While the film isn’t a bastion of female empowerment, feminist nuggets like that pop up throughout the film, which is always refreshing within the confines of the well-worn tropes in romantic comedies.

Akeem asks Imani, his chosen wife-to-be, to speak privately, breaking tradition.

When Akeem is presented with the beautiful woman who is to be his wife, Imani (Vanessa Bell), he asks to talk to her privately. She proudly tells him, “Ever since I was born, I’ve been trained to serve you.” He pushes to find out more about her, her favorite music, food, anything. But all she says is that she likes what he likes and will obey him. He says, “Anything I say, you’ll do?” after she refuses to not obey him, which is what he wants. He tells her to bark like a dog, and she complies, making a fool of herself as he is convinced this is not the woman he will marry.

The fact that she was “born to serve” this man isn’t an anomaly–in patriarchal cultures steeped in tradition, the idea that women should be indoctrinated to be subservient to men is endemic. (Just last week, a U.S. congressman suggested that young boys and girls have segregated classes to be taught gender norms.)

When Akeem pushes back to his father and tries to get out of the marriage, saying he’s not ready, the king assumes he means sex. “I always assumed you had sex with your bathers,” the father says. “I know I do.” Again, the king is presented as misogynistic and patriarchal, without considering that his son may be trying to break free. He allows Akeem to go and travel for 40 days, assuming he wants to “sow his wild oats,” and that he’ll come back and marry the bride they chose for him.

As they prepare to leave, Akeem tells Semmi that he plans to find a wife during his travels. “I want a woman who will arouse my intellect as well as my loins,” Akeem says. They decide to go to New York City, specifically Queens, because he assumes there’s no better place to find a queen.

Akeem is excited to be in Queens; Semmi is less than impressed.

It’s a priority to Akeem that no one knows he’s royalty. He wants them to stay in the most “common” part of Queens, and asks the landlord to choose the “poorest” apartment for them to rent. When a woman throws garbage out of her window, Akeem exclaims, “America is great indeed–imagine a country so free, one can throw glass on the street!” Observations on wealth and ethnocentrism are also peppered throughout the film.

The two drape themselves in New York sports teams jackets and hats, and are mesmerized by a commercial for Soul Glo. Akeem goes to the barber shop (a gathering place near their apartment, where Murphy and Hall both play other parts). He gets his long princely ponytail cut off. The barber is impressed with his natural hair, and Akeem says he’s never put chemicals in it, just “juices and berries.” Later, the barber would rant and rant when Akeem asks for a Jheri curl, touting the importance of keeping hair natural. Between that and the brief rant by a white Jewish man in the barber shop (played by Murphy) that a person should be able to choose his own name, important facets of African American history and identity are touched upon in the barber shop (which were often official gathering places during the civil rights movement).

After a night of meeting women of various disaster levels, Akeem and Semmi end up at a Black Awareness Week rally (specifically, the Miss Black Awareness Pageant), where Akeem immediately becomes enamored with Lisa McDowell (Shari Headley), the organizer of the rally and daughter of Cleo McDowell, who owns McDowell’s (a small fast food restaurant that borrows a lot from McDonald’s). She takes the microphone to stress the importance of individual expression (somewhat belittling the pageant, even if tongue in cheek) and asks the crowd to donate to a park for children to be able to express themselves. Akeem puts a giant wad of cash in the collection basket, and the next morning, Akeem and Semmi show up at McDowell’s to get jobs.

Akeem learns how to mop, and tries to flirt with Lisa, who is hard at work on a computer in her office. Akeem clearly, and immediately, values a woman with a sense of identity and purpose beyond serving a man.

Soul Glo heir Darryl (Eriq La Salle) is Lisa’s boyfriend, and the audience immediately knows he’s an ass–he puts no money in the collection basket (and lets Lisa think he was responsible for the large donation), he buddies up to Cleo and is condescending toward Lisa. If Akeem was more like Darryl, or even Semmi, his life would have been easier–he could have simply married his chosen wife and followed in the footsteps of what’s expected of powerful, wealthy men because “tradition.” The film presents these men to be critical of how patriarchy works–or doesn’t–within a culture (or cultures).

The film continues to present these entrenched ideas: “Is this an American girl? Go through her poppa… Get in good with the father, you’re home free,” the barber tells Akeem. “I don’t know how it is in Africa, but here rich guys get all the chicks,” says a McDowell’s clerk (played by Louie Anderson).

Akeem goes along to a basketball game with Lisa, Darryl and Lisa’s sister, Patrice, who is presented comically as shallow and very interested in sexual conquests and wealthy men, unlike the noble Lisa. Can’t have a romantic comedy without a little virgin/whore dichotomy action!

Darryl makes disparaging remarks to Akeem about being from Africa, commenting about how it must be weird to be wearing clothes, and asking if they play games like catch the monkey. Earlier, the landlord says to Akeem and Semmi that the apartments have an insect problem, “but you boys are from Africa so you’re probably used to that.” When characters reinforce the African savage stereotype, it’s clear that these characters are not good.

Akeem is a good friend to Lisa when Darryl is forceful and misogynistic.

And when characters act like women are to be subservient sexual objects without their own identities, it’s also clear that they are in the wrong. From the king’s bawdy suggestions and adherence to the tradition of submissive, chosen wives, to Darryl pressuring Lisa to quit her job (“My lady doesn’t have to work”) or announcing their engagement without asking her if she wants to marry him (he went through her father, after all), men who don’t respect women are not the good guys–they are the ones who need to change.

When Akeem stands up to a robber at McDowell’s (Samuel L. Jackson doing one of the things he does best–wielding a gun and saying “fucker” as many times as possible), Darryl makes light of the fact that he hid, and suggested that Akeem knew those moves from fighting “lions and tigers and shit.” He then says, “They might not admit it, but they [women] all want a man to take charge–to tell them what to do.” Akeem smiles at him, but knows that’s not true.

Lisa’s affection for Akeem grows when he quotes Nietzsche and when he is a thoughtful, sensitive listener when she’s angry that Darryl steamrolls their engagement, which she refuses.

“I’m fine,” she assures Akeem. “I’m just not going to be pressured into marriage by Darryl, my father, anybody.” Akeem says he understands, and that he doesn’t think anyone should get married out of obligation.

When they go out to dinner, Lisa says how nice it is to be with a man who knows how to express himself and she insists on taking the paycheck. Lisa’s attraction to these stereotypically not-masculine traits serves as a reminder that there is value to these qualities in both men and women.

Lisa is smart and independent, qualities Akeem isn’t supposed to want.

Cleo pressures Lisa to marry Darryl as he sees her drifting toward Akeem. “You only like him because he’s rich,” Lisa says. Cleo–who has positioned himself as the ultimate bootstraps-pulling American dream–tells her that he just doesn’t want her to struggle like he and her mother did.

Akeem’s charade begins to unravel as his family arrives in Queens via motorcade. Cleo is elated that Akeem is actually a prince; Lisa is devastated that he’d lied to her (and the fact that the king told her Akeem was only sowing his “royal oats” in America before he got married).

Akeem chases after Lisa, and begs her to marry him. He offers to renounce his throne, and explains that he only wanted someone to fall in love with him for who he is, not for his money or royalty. She hesitates, but refuses, and runs off.

Queen Aeoleon (Akeem’s mother, played by Madge Sinclair) begins pushing back against her husband, challenging him about how he knows Akeem doesn’t love Lisa, and that the arranged marriage is a “stupid tradition.” “Who am I to change it?” asks the king. “I thought you were the king,” she says.

Back in Zamunda, a royal wedding has begun, and Akeem is waiting for his bride, looking resigned and sad. A bride in an enormous pink dress and veil walks down the aisle. When he lifts the veil from her face, Lisa’s face is smiling at him. He looks elated, and his parents are smiling (the queen’s logic reigned), and Cleo steps up to join the king and queen.

Akeem is surprised that Lisa is under the veil.

As they ride off in a carriage among a crowd of cheering partygoers, Lisa asks if she would have really given all of this up for her. “Of course,” Akeem responds. “If you like, we can give it all up now.” She says, “Nah,” and they laugh, and live, I’m sure, happily ever after.

The plot is pretty predictable. Female subservience is challenged, but standards of female beauty aren’t. The characters aren’t remarkably complex, but their motives are clear and almost always understandable. That said, this is a romantic comedy. I don’t mean to demean the genre as a whole, but I think it’s safe to say most blockbuster romantic comedies are pretty damn problematic, so to have a romantic comedy that subverts the notion of valuing wives who are simply beautiful and submissive while featuring a predominantly black cast and depicting Africa positively, I’d say that’s a win.

Lisa is OK with her royal title.

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.