Science Fiction – Bitch Flicks

‘Metropolis’ and ‘Ex Machina’: Portrayals of Gender, Technology, and Society

‘Metropolis’ and ‘Ex Machina’ are merely the oldest and one of the most recent examples, respectively, in a long line of films (and texts) that associate women with technology in this manner, presenting them as potent and potential threats to societal order and to the men who create and aim to control them.

Guest post written by Deborah Krieger. | Spoilers ahead.

Fritz Lang’s 1927 silent film Metropolis and Alex Garland’s 2015 film Ex Machina share many commonalities. While these two sci-fi films come from different countries (Germany and the UK, respectively) and from wildly differing eras, social contexts, and technological standpoints, both films have much in common in terms of their portrayals of gender, as well as the key association of technology with social class divides. They also represent an ascribing of an inhuman machine-influenced identity to those who work with said technology, creating a blurring of the lines between man and machine. I will compare and contrast how these two films, made nearly ninety years apart from one another, represent the male and female genders as well as divergent views on the purposes, users, and creators of technology, highlighting the ways in which Ex Machina is indebted to and reflects its predecessor.

In Metropolis, technology is depicted as necessary for all of society to coexist. Yet it is associated with the working class — particularly the male worker — who must give their blood, sweat, and labor to the “Heart Machine” located underground in the City of the Workers, depicted at the opening of the film. The workers of Metropolis are not only associated with machines and technology through their daily labor, but they are also depicted as extremely robotic, monotonous, and identical in their movements. They are all dressed in the same masculinized dark clothing and live what could be called robotic lifestyles, following the same work schedule day in and day out. Even the workers’ walking is mechanized in the shift change scene. Apart from Maria, the only named members of the working class are male: Grot (Heinrich George), the foreman and Georgy/11811 (Erwin Biswanger), an aspect highlighted by Gabriela Stoicea in her article “Re-Producing the Class and Gender Divide: Fritz Lang’s Metropolis,” in which she discusses Karl Marx’s de-emphasizing of the female worker within the context of labor:

“One of the most striking elements in this sequence is the complete absence of women and children, as male workers return to a seemingly deserted city […] by all rules of logic, the so-called worker’s city in Metropolis should therefore be a space inhabited mostly by women and children. Visually, however, there are next to no traces of their existence […] Additionally, Marx himself refused to acknowledge the importance of women’s domestic labor for the daily reproduction of workers’ labor power since it was not remunerated financially.” (Stoicea, 25)

In stark contrast to the working class, the wealthy class, of which the protagonist Freder (Gustav Fröhlich) belongs, lives far above the city in the “Club of the Sons,” where they are surrounded by lush, ethereal flora of the “Pleasure Gardens” and are free to move about, to run, to dance as they wish to, with highly differentiated forms of dress and body language. When we are first introduced to the “Club of the Sons,” we see young men and women cavorting in a fantastical garden landscape, replete with strange plants and a bubbling fountain. The women — described by Stoicea as “prostitutes” (Stoicea, 32) — wear ornate, highly sexualized dresses, while the men are largely dressed in white — a symbol of luxury in that one must have the resources to clean the material if it gets dirty, which the inhabitants of the “Club of the Sons” clearly do.

While Metropolis assigns technology and machinery to a (masculinized) working class, Ex Machina clearly associates technology, as well as the subsequent dehumanization of its users and makers, with the wealthy upper class and with more pastoral elements (see Figures 3-7 in Appendix A), yet still maintains a highly masculinized atmosphere. Nathan Bateman (Oscar Isaac), the creator of the Google- and Facebook-esque site Bluebook is depicted as incredibly well-off, with an entire underground compound filled with cutting edge software and hardware, hidden away on a massive tract of land (rather than in an urbanized environment). In Metropolis, the most advanced technology is in the Pleasure Garden itself, kept away from the lowly Underground City.

Bluebook is the creation that gained Nathan his fame and fortune; notably, Nathan’s creation of the female robots, Kyoko (Sonoya Mizuno) and Ava (Alicia Vikander), is not necessary for his economic survival. These female robots are merely prototypes created for his enjoyment in a variety of ways both servile and sexual; their use connects the technology depicted in Ex Machina with the leisure and privilege of the upper classes, rather than as something necessary for societal order and human survival. While arguably we could consider Bluebook, like Facebook and Google, to be necessary for humanity to some degree, these internet applications are not nearly as integral to the simple mechanical functioning of society in the way that the complex machinery is in Metropolis.

Additionally, while women are also hinted at as existing within a technological/labor-based context in Ex Machina, they are not even remotely important to the plot; in the beginning sequence of the film when Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) learns he has won a prize allowing him to meet Nathan, the reclusive creator of Bluebook, there are various out-of-focus shots of female figures within the context of the Bluebook workplace, as well as text messages on Caleb’s phone from unseen female co-workers. However, it is the female robots, rather than the male humans, who propel the film’s climax and ending.

The archetype of the female robot, or “fembot,” has long been a popular figure in media, be it live-action film, cartoons, comics, novels, and more. Many societies have grappled with this powerful but dangerous figure, giving us works as different in tone and theme as Blade Runner (directed by Ridley Scott, 1982) and Austin Powers (directed by Jay Roach, 1997-2002) from the U.S. as well as Chobits (manga by CLAMP; 2000-2002) and Ghost in the Shell (directed by Mamoru Oshii, 1995) from Japan. Metropolis and Ex Machina are merely the oldest and one of the most recent examples, respectively, in a long line of films (and texts) that associate women with technology in this manner, presenting them as potent and potential threats to societal order and to the men who create and aim to control them.

In Metropolis, the female robot in question is a recreation of the inventor Rotwang (Rudolf Klein-Rogge)’s beloved Hel, who married the city’s leader, Joh Fredersen (Alfred Abel), and gave birth to Freder. When Joh Fredersen learns of Rotwang’s creation and of Maria (Brigitte Helm), the woman from the Underground City who prophesies the mediation of the two classes, he convinces Rotwang to give the robot Maria’s image, intended be a demagogue, to fool the workers into violently rioting and to lead them to their own destruction. The robot Maria (aka “Maschinenmensch”) goes on to perform an extremely sexualized, hypnotic dance for the wealthy young men of the Club of the Sons, using her body for the purposes of her creator.

Ava and Kyoko in Ex Machina share several common aspects with the robot Maria in Metropolis, but they also differ in some key ways. Ava and Kyoko are both created for sexualized purposes. It is unclear that Kyoko (who writer Zhuojie Chen called “a white man’s plot device“) is actually a machine until late in the film, as Caleb — and the audience by proxy — assumes she is a human woman who does not understand English and thus does not speak. In fact, Kyoko is a robot with whom Nathan engages sexually, and Ava, it is revealed, is also created to respond to intercourse, as Nathan tells Caleb:

“You bet she can fuck […] in between her legs, there’s an opening with a concentration of sensors. If you engage them in the right way, it creates a pleasure response. So if you wanted to screw her, mechanically speaking, you could, and she’d enjoy it.”

Thus the male sexual consumption of the female robot hinted at in Metropolis is taken to its literal extreme in Ex Machina. Later in the film, it is revealed that Caleb was not randomly selected to meet Nathan and perform the Turing test on Ava; his internet searches and pornography preferences were used in constructing Ava’s face and body, thus emphasizing the extreme disconnect between the creation of the robots in Metropolis and Ex Machina. In the former, the robot is created for love and is corrupted to perform evil tasks, whereas Ava was designed and programmed from the start to be able to hurt and manipulate Caleb.

Additionally, the female robots in Metropolis and Ex Machina both make use of the media in which they are represented to complete their seduction of the male characters in a rather self-referential way — and, in the case of Ex Machina, the seduction of the audience through Caleb. Metropolis is a silent film; therefore the robot Maria must use her body in order to establish her power, which she does during her dance sequence. Even if she speaks, the audience cannot hear her — we can only read her words in the intertitles — so her seduction of the audience must be as effective as her seduction of the characters in the text; thus the focus on her scantily-clad physical form. Conversely, Ex Machina has the benefit of being a non-silent film, which allows Ava to seduce both Caleb and the audience with her body language as well as with her voice and personality, revealed in their ongoing conversations. Thus, we see a similarity between the methods of these two female robots, even if their texts differ in technological capabilities.

Both films use dance sequences to create a sense of confusion in a designated male viewer or viewers, controlled by the male masters of the robot in question; Maria dancing for the wealthy men of the city, orchestrated by Joh Fredersen and Rotwang, is echoed in the seemingly randomly-inserted disco sequence in which Kyoko and Nathan perform a routine in unison while Caleb can only watch, horrified and uneasy. Indeed, Ex Machina‘s dance sequence has several visual parallels to that in Metropolis, including the way the dancing female robots are shot: from the front, with circular decorations in the background, and a focus on the sexualized, half-dressed female body in motion (see Figures 1 and 2 in Appendix A). Director Alex Garland said in an interview with Wired that he wanted to avoid making viewers think of Metropolis’s Maria when designing Ava, but it seems that he still owes the earlier film a debt in terms of the narrative weight and significance of their dance scenes and depiction of gender.

While the female robots of Metropolis and Ex Machina are important characters within their respective films, they are far from the main protagonists. In what is perhaps a reference to Freder’s narrative journey from innocence to disenchanted knowledge, Ex Machina’s Caleb undergoes a similar trajectory. Both characters begin the film in one world, only to have their lives changed upon visiting an entirely different world — in both cases, literally an underground world. Freder spends the beginning of Metropolis gallivanting in the Pleasure Gardens without a care in the world, but soon learns of the oppression of the lower class when he visits the Underground City and meets Maria, who prophesies a promise of peace and resolution.

Likewise, Caleb begins in the historical world in a brief prologue, where it is revealed that he has won the fateful contest. As he descends into Nathan’s compound, his optimism and ability to trust are constantly tested by Nathan as well as by Ava, to the point where Caleb becomes unsure of whether he himself is an actual human being. Caleb reaches a turning point after a session with Ava, as well as his discovery of videotapes in which Nathan’s older robot models destroy themselves trying to break free. He begins to doubt his own humanity in the light of Nathan’s cavalier approach to creating and destroying life in his robots, so to speak, and in a particularly gruesome scene, slices open a vein on his forearm to make sure he can bleed. It is also during this sequence that Caleb makes the decision — or so he believes — to betray Nathan and help Ava escape.

One other major difference between these two films is the depiction (or lack thereof) of the robot women’s potential for subjectivity. In Metropolis, only the workers and young men of the Club of the Sons believe that the robot Maria is human; Rotwang and Joh Fredersen know the truth, and their point of view holds sway as they manipulate the robot Maria’s body for their own purposes. As an audience, we are never sure whether the robot Maria has a consciousness or independent will. This issue is touched upon in the film, as Rotwang assures the real Maria:

“Joh Fredersen is looking for an excuse to use violence against the workers […] she will destroy their belief in the Mediator! But she is only a machine — made to obey my will. While my power holds, she will do so […] but already I feel I have lost that power, and I am fearful of the consequences!”

However, the audience never sees Rotwang’s apprehension result in any actions of which Joh Fredersen would not have approved. Conversely, the main thrust of Ex Machina‘s narrative is devoted to Caleb’s exploration about whether Ava has a consciousness, a subjectivity, or is merely programmed to act the way she does. In contrast to Metropolis, which only mentions a loss of control briefly, Ex Machina seems to answer this question in the affirmative, as Ava takes the initiative to turn Kyoko against Nathan, kill him, and abandon Caleb to die. Her actions indicate that Ava has, for all intents and purposes, free will, or at least a desire for self-preservation at all costs, in the light of her and Caleb’s realization that Nathan plans to disassemble her when he builds an upgrade.

Of course, it is also possible that the sadistic Nathan could have given Ava and Kyoko a desire to escape as part of their design (rather than such a desire being evidence of AI), only to torture them by refusing to set them free, which might have led them to self-destruct as earlier models are shown to have done. When Ava and Kyoko turn on Nathan, we see Ava whispering something indecipherable in Kyoko’s ear, which might be what switches Kyoko from acting obedient to seeking retribution. Additionally, it could be argued either way that Kyoko revealing herself as a robot to Caleb is part of Nathan’s programming, or that it represents Kyoko rebelling against her creator, thus hinting at a level of AI capabilities she had not previously demonstrated.

Yet through the changing of the point of view in the last sequences of the film from Caleb, trapped in a room of the compound, to Ava, who leaves the compound in the helicopter and enters the human world, we see that Ava has a consciousness and becomes, for the last few minutes, a de facto co-protagonist of the story. Even if her wants and desires are indeed programmed to a degree, the fact that Ava has such feelings and is able to act upon them is evidence that Nathan cannot ultimately control his creation, while in Metropolis, it is less certain whether Rotwang ever truly loses control.

It’s particularly interesting to think about the way Ava performs humanity within the context of Descartes, whose famous quotation “I think, therefore I am,” complicates how we might think about the difference between a human and a machine. According to Neil Badmington, Descartes does not separate humanity versus machinery by virtue of bodily differences — i.e. flesh-and-blood versus hardware — but rather, through the possession of “reason,” which is “the only thing that makes us men and distinguishes us from the beasts” (Descartes in Badmington, 16). However, Badmington challenges Descartes’s certainty, imagining the following hypothetical:

“If a machine — in keeping with the spirit of his fantastic scenario — were constructed in such a way that it had what might be called ‘an organ for every occasion,’ it would, according to the letter of Descartes’s own argument, no longer be possible to maintain a clear distinction between the human and the inhuman. Given enough organs, a machine would be capable of responding in a manner utterly indistinguishable from that of a human being. Reason, no longer capable of ‘distinguish[ing] us from the beasts,’ would meet its match, its fatal and flawless double.” (Badmington, 18)

There can be little doubt that Ava fulfills this prophecy; over the course of the film, it becomes increasingly clear that she is “capable of responding in a manner utterly indistinguishable from that of a human being” (Badmington, 18), much to Nathan’s and Caleb’s detriment. As Garland’s inspiration for the film came from a conversation with his neuroscientist friend who argued that machines could never have consciousness, this ending serves to make his point that much more strongly.

The endings of Metropolis and Ex Machina differ on the relationship between technology and humankind, and present outcomes at the opposite ends of the spectrum. At the end of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen (the “head”) and the engineer Grot (“the hands”) are joined in solidarity and unity by Freder, the prophesied mediator (the “heart”), ultimately representing a happy ending and a promise of coexistence. In contrast, the ending of Ex Machina nullifies this premise, presenting humanity and technology as forces at cross-purposes (despite Garland’s claim that it’s “a pro-AI movie”): Nathan intends to destroy Ava when he makes a newer model of the AI; in return for this mistreatment, Ava and Kyoko turn on Nathan and Caleb, betraying them, stabbing Nathan, and leaving Caleb to die in the sealed-off compound while Ava, disguised as a human, escapes into the real world. The endings of Metropolis and Ex Machina prove particularly ironic, given that Lang was critical of industrialization, while Garland, who deems Ex Machina “pro-AI” sets machines and humans at odds by the film’s end. As technology and robotics improve within our society, it remains to be seen which film’s view is more accurate: whether these new machines, designed to be so like us, will be friend, foe, or more.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

On Ex Machina, Artificial Intelligence of Color, and How to Become a (White) Woman

Ex Machina: Scavenging for Parts in a Patriarchal World

Ex Machina‘s Failure to Be Radical: Or How Ava Is the Antithesis of a Feminist Cyborg

Ex Machina and Her: Dude, the Internet’s Just Not That Into You

Manic Pixie Revolutionary Awakenings

Literature Cited:

Anders, Charlie Jane. “From Metropolis to Ex Machina: Why Are So Many Robots Female?” io9, April 21, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Badmington, Neil. “Theorizing Posthumanism.” Cultural Critique, No. 53, Posthumanism (Winter, 2003): 10-27. Web. 8 May 2016.

Garland, Alex. “Ex Machina’s Director on Why A.I. is Humanity’s Last Hope.” Interview with Angela Watercutter. Wired, April 7, 2015. Web. 8 May 2016.

Johnson, Kjerstin. “How ‘Ex Machina’ Toys with its Female Characters.” Bitch Media, May 8, 2015. 8 May 2016.

Rose, Steve. “Ex Machina and sci-fi’s obsession with sexy female robots.” The Guardian, January 15, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Stoicea, Gabriela. “Re-Producing the Class and Gender Divide: Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.” Women in German Yearbook, Vol. 22 (2006): 21-42. 8 May 2016.

Watercutter, Angela. “Ex Machina Has a Serious Fembot Problem.” Wired, April 9, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Appendix A:

Figure 1. Maria dances in Metropolis.

Figure 2. Kyoko dances in Ex Machina.

Figure 3. The City of the Workers, Metropolis.

Figure 4. The Pleasure Gardens, Metropolis.

Figures 5-7. Stills from Ex Machina of Nathan’s compound.

Deborah Krieger is the curatorial assistant at the Delaware Art Museum as well as an arts and culture writer and Fulbright Austria alumna. She has written for BUST Magazine, PopMatters, Paste Magazine, Whitehot Magazine of Contemporary Art, The Mary Sue, and The Awl. She also runs her own art blog, I On the Arts, and curates her life in pictures @Debonthearts on Twitter and Instagram.

The Chameleon Woman in ‘Dollhouse’ and ‘iZombie’: Personality Swapping and Agency

The problem presented by both ‘Dollhouse’ and ‘iZombie’ is that of the “Chameleon Woman.” Both Echo and Liv carry the metaphor of the expectation that women adapt based on the needs and desires of others. However, both TV series point to this societal issue with two very different takes.

Guest post written by Audrey T. Carroll.

“Would you like a treatment?” This phrase is repeated throughout the course of Joss Whedon’s television series Dollhouse, meant to cue the “Actives” or “Dolls” — people, mostly women, whose personalities have been stripped from them — to let the in-house scientist imprint them with a personality, memories, or skills that someone pays for them to have. After the client encounters, they are again wiped of their memories and personalities. The “Dollhouse,” one of approximately 20 facilities that rents out Dolls, is a human trafficking ring. The Dolls are meant to fulfill the expectations of others, especially (though admittedly not exclusively) male clients and often in a sexual or sexually enticing capacity. For example, in season one episode two “The Target,” the show’s protagonist, Echo (Eliza Dushku), is sent on a date with a man who loves outdoor activities. She is clearly hired in an arousal capacity, which takes a turn for the worst when the guy starts to hunt her.

Echo changes every week. We’re supposed to root for her because she’s the protagonist and Eliza Dushku does a wonderful job infusing the character with as much sympathy as possible. Of course we feel bad for her because of her situation. However, it can be difficult to connect to a character who has to change in accordance with each situation. Echo, in a lot of ways, embodies an ideal of “the chameleon woman.” She changes depending on the needs of the partner who paid for her, a sickening representation of the expectation that women exist solely to service the needs of others, most commonly men — if they like the outdoors, then so must she; if they need a doting wife or neighbor, then she must fit that description; if they need someone cold and calculating, then that’s what she becomes.

Why, out of all of the Dolls in the House, do we predominantly follow Echo? Because Echo is unique in that she has a “defect”: she has the ability to retain some semblance of self and she becomes more self-aware. Because of this, we can root for her as an audience; it gives us some sort of personality continuity that we can connect to emotionally. But the characters in power — scientist Topher (Fran Kanz); Adelle, (Olivia Williams) who runs the Dollhouse; Echo’s handler, Boyd (Harry Lennix) — make it clear that this is a defect, not something impressive or victorious as the audience might perceive it. In fact, this can land Echo in a lot of trouble. Specifically, she can end up in “the Attic,” which serves as a punishment of permanent entrapment and mental torment for Dolls who are “broken” or “defective” (in the view of the Dollhouse).

Echo’s unique skill doesn’t help her to not be stripped of her agency the vast majority of the time. She has no say in what personalities she gets imprinted with, or who her clients are, or even the most basic “yes or no” consent. Even before she was a Doll, when she was Caroline, the head of the Dollhouse essentially backed her against the wall, making Caroline’s agreement to be a doll in the first place ethically compromised even beyond the basic premise of “humans used as shells for the pleasure of people who pay for them.” It was hardly a choice at all. And for some other characters — namely Sierra (Dichen Lachman), who was institutionalized by a man after she rejected him and then involuntarily sent to the Dollhouse — there was literally no choice at all.

Based on the comic books, the TV series iZombie, created by Diane Ruggiero-Wright and Rob Thomas, focuses on the crime-solving medical examiner and pseudo-psychic Olivia “Liv” Moore (Rose McIver). Liv helps Detective Clive Babineaux (Malcolm Goodwin) with homicide cases. She’s able to do this because, in the process of eating the brains that come down to the medical examiner’s office to keep herself as human as possible, she takes on the memories and personalities of the deceased. This can lead to visions that give Liv clues for Clive to identify the killers he needs to put away. Because of the way that eating brains affects Liv, she changes personalities every week — a dominatrix one week, a frat boy the next.

Liv is able to help in the pursuit of justice, albeit in a highly unconventional way, and she’s able to develop meaningful and consistent relationships not solely centered on sex or her sexual appeal. She has no sexual history nor, as far as the show presents, sexual engagement with most of the other characters: Ravi (Rahul Kohli), her fellow medical examiner; Peyton (Aly Michalka), her best friend; and Clive. It could be argued that Clive benefits from what Liv can do, but he is friends with her outside of her abilities and, while he can be very determined and dedicated, he’s never forced or coerced Liv into a situation or actions that morally compromise her.

Echo’s defect is that she maintains a semblance of self; Liv’s is that she can deviate from her true self. When Liv eats the brains of a deceased hitman, she almost lets Ravi get eaten by a much more monstrous “Romero zombie.” When she’s on vigilante brains, she almost gets herself killed. When she’s on nymphomaniac brains, she cheats on her boyfriend. But most of the time, Liv is still Liv, just with some goofy quirks and moments of zoning out when she sees someone else’s memories. At first, Liv’s voice-over narration in the show reflects her thoughts and demonstrates that she’s still herself. Later, the writers let Rose McIver’s acting and her consistent chemistry with the other actors do the heavy lifting of demonstrating that Liv is always Liv, and that this Liv is who her friends connect to and care about.

Liv is also not robbed of her agency. She chooses to eat the brains of murder victims for many reasons tied to her character, probably the two foremost being that the person is already dead and she wants to help find their killer. She also turns down the “brain mush” from the company Fillmore-Graves, which would give her the sustenance she needs without imbuing her with the personalities or memories of the deceased. Liv chooses to help others, to accept the drawbacks of her current feeding situation so that being a zombie — a state of being that was beyond her control — becomes something that benefits the greater good. Liv is able to make the choice to not let what she is control who she is — zombie Liv is different from human Liv, but she is still at her core Liv.

The problem presented by both Dollhouse and iZombie is that of the “Chameleon Woman.” Both Echo and Liv carry the metaphor of the expectation that women adapt based on the needs and desires of others. However, both TV series point to this societal issue with two very different takes. In Dollhouse, women (who comprise most of the recurring named Dolls) are commodities waiting to have a skin put on them. The framing can make it difficult to create emotional connection to Echo, and all of the non-Dolls are morally compromised because they are either actively involved in the actions of the Dollhouse or otherwise complicit in its continued existence.

The argument could be made that Dollhouse is about women struggling to regain agency. However, there is the example of Alpha (Alan Tudyk), a Doll who escaped and became homicidal because he, like Echo, was remembering personalities that the Dollhouse gave him. He can theoretically be read as a warning for Echo not to be anything more than the childlike drone she is when between personalities. This is to say nothing of the constantly looming threat of “The Attic.” Whether Echo retaining her memories and sense of self is a positive quality is much more ambiguous and comes with a much greater sense of personal danger for the protagonist than is presented on iZombie.

In iZombie, situations can happen to a person that they can’t control but they can still make choices about how to move forward and, in this way, maintain agency. It’s not a flaw; letting the adopted personality control you is the failing. Liv’s zombie boyfriend Justin (Tongayi Chirisa) even tells her, when she cheats on him while on nymphomaniac brains, “I’ve eaten brains before, Liv, and you can fight them if you really want to.” At the end of the day, Dolls are Dolls; they can function as objects or they can be made to disappear. Zombies can become monsters, either the ilk of serial killer criminal bosses like Blaine (David Anders) or mindless and violent “Romero zombies.” But zombies do not have to choose to be monsters.

Both TV series are all about choice, and this becomes colored a certain way with female protagonists. Women are too often robbed of choice, or are presented with choices that range from bad to worse. The struggle for women’s agency seems inextricably linked to the struggle for women’s choices. Examining what women do with choice is a natural extension of this effort. At the end of the day, Dollhouse is about what a woman does with a lack of choice; iZombie is about what a woman does within her realm of choices.

Audrey T. Carroll is a Queens, NYC native currently pursuing her English PhD at the University of Rhode Island. Her obsessions include kittens, coffee, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Queen of Pentacles, her debut poetry collection, is available from Choose the Sword Press, and she can be found at http://audreytcarrollwrites.weebly.com and @AudreyTCarroll on Twitter.

Why ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ Visuals Should Carry the TV Series to Emmy Victory

‘The Handmaid’s Tale,’ which stars Elisabeth Moss as June/Offred, is a hard watch in terms of emotional drama. But the TV series, which is the first prestige drama to focus intimately on a woman’s perspective of a dystopian world, rivals ‘Game of Thrones’ in terms of visual splendor.

Guest post written by Ani Bundel.

When the Emmy nominations for the 2016-2017 television season arrived, for the first time since 2011, there was a huge opening for new “prestige TV shows” to make their mark. For years, the “Drama” category, as well as the myriad of technical awards that are pushed out of the main televised portion of the event, has been dominated by one show: Game of Thrones. But this year, due to a twist in scheduling, HBO’s mainstay is not eligible. In its stead, the opportunity for Best Drama, as well as wins for cinematography, production design, and costumes, should go to The Handmaid’s Tale. In addition to these categories, the series also received Emmy nominations for acting (Elisabeth Moss, Samira Wiley, Ann Down, and Alexis Bledel), directing (Reed Morano and Kate Dennis), writing (Bruce Miller), casting, and visual effects.

The Handmaid’s Tale, which stars Elisabeth Moss as June/Offred, is a hard watch in terms of emotional drama. But the TV series, which is the first prestige drama to focus intimately on a woman’s perspective of a dystopian world, rivals Game of Thrones in terms of visual splendor. Some of the more chilling aspects of the show are drawn directly from Margaret Atwood’s 1985 dystopian novel: the blood red of the Handmaids’ garb, the blue of the Wives. In addition to evoking a sanguine shade, Atwood chose red for the Handmaids to symbolize Mary Magdalene. She also chose the color because prisoners of war were forced to wear red in Canada during WWII “because it shows up so very well in the snow.” In the novel and the series, the Wives wear blue to symbolize the Virgin Mary and feminine religious piety. The particular shades of red and peacock blue used were inspire by nature: a red maple leaf against a teal sky, used to contrast the two groups of women but still be aesthetically appealing visually. The show’s choices with lighting enhance this already striking visual stratification of society. Regarding the costumes’ color symbolism, costume designer Ane Crabtree told Vanity Fair:

“We wanted the Handmaids, as they are the fertile women’s tribe of the story, to flow down the streets of Gilead, leaving a long line of red in the midst of the gray of Gilead. Beyond this, the red is the color of a womb, of a wanton woman, a scarlet kind of mark upon a pious world of dark tones in the visual landscape, and also in a tiny intimate space.”

In an interview with The Hollywood Reporter, Crabtree said that it was “intense” finding the right shade of red that would look like “liquid blood” as well as look striking on camera on women of all races. Just as the wardrobes stratify the women, the lighting and production design work in tandem to convey the Handmaids’ oppression as well. Director of photography Colin Watkinson told Indiewire: “I want you to feel the light coming from the outside, so it’s based in a reality, but it’s a hyperreality.” Production designer Julie Berghoff told Curbed that visually, June/Offred “should feel like a mouse in a cage.”

Before the series even aired on Hulu, the red of the Handmaids’ costumes along with their bonnets (which work like human versions of horse blinders) had already made an impact. Cosplayers showed up to events (and to political rallies) dressed in costumes taken from the show’s promotional materials, unnerving those passing by and security guards alike. But on-screen, the stark red of their outfits becomes more pronounced with the warm, pink tinged lighting tones.

In scenes like the birthing room, and other moments when all the Handmaids are gathered together with Aunt Lydia (Ann Dowd), the show turns up the pink highlights. The TV series “uses vaguely Nazi brown for the Aunts.” The skin of the actresses become rosier, more flushed, as if to remind us these women who are forced to serve are alive, full of life, in fact the only ones so alive, they can breed new life.

Contrast that against the green filters used on the wives like Serena Joy (Yvonne Strahovski). Much like the pink tinged filters, the most obvious moment comes during the birthing scene, with the wives downstairs playacting at labor while upstairs the handmaid Ofwarren (Madeline Brewer) actually feels the pain.

But it is all the more jarring when these green women suddenly invade the birthing room at the end of the sequence, and their green is suddenly lit by the pink filters – a little borrowing of the Handmaid’s inner life while stealing their inner ability to make it. The opposite happens during the afterbirth, when Offred is forced to sit in the green tinged living rooms of the Wives cooing over the baby. The green filters drain Moss of the pink we’ve seen her look previously, as these vampires around her drain it for their own masquerades.

Interestingly, there are two other moments when Offred looks less lifelike. The first is with Commander Waterford (Joseph Fiennes). He too is lit with a green wash to match his wife. It’s a subtle signaling by the show that he is just as barren as the woman he married, and that in fact, there is no chance he can get Offred any more pregnant than he can Serena Joy. Both Waterfords are always lit in green tones — even during the “before” flashbacks of the Serena Joy episode. Not only are they sterile people — although we don’t actually know if Serena is infertile, as women are the ones blamed for infertility, despite at least the doctor Offred visits knowing it’s men who could be sterile — they are sickly ones who would oppress others and take their happiness.

The other times Offred looks more pallid are whenever she’s down in the kitchen with the Martha character Rita (Amanda Brugel). The Marthas, per the book, are dressed in drab greens, as if to help them fade into the walls. The lighting enhances this, and Wilkinson said for the lighting they “opted for grey diffusion and unbleached muslin bounce.” But the lighting on the Marthas is always unnaturally dim and shadowed, as if to hide them. No wonder they are the servants in Gilead with the most effective network.

There is one time in Gilead that these stratifications are thrown to the side – the trip to the world of the Jezebels where Offred sees Moira (Samira Wiley) for the first time since being assigned to the Waterfords. Those sequences have a golden tinge to them, a deliberate call back to all of the sequences “before” Gilead happened. This is also the time when we see people wearing the colors of pre-Gilead life. It’s noteworthy that these sequences eschew red, greenish blue, and grayish green for browns, oranges, yellows, and blues.

Book readers could have predicted this about the Jezebels sequence – after all, that, like the rest of the world building, is pulled straight from the novel. But what was striking is how much it recalled the flashbacks (which don’t exist quite in the same fashion on the page), as well as our Canadian episode with June’s husband Luke (O-T Fagbenle).

On first watch, this was my least favorite episode. In a show that had focused on the oppression of women and their stories, why were we forced to sit for an hour to watch a man who escaped this world? (Other than the obviousness that this was helping build out space for a second season?) But upon closer inspection, this episode turned out to be the cruelest cut of all, and it was all in the lighting of Luke’s memories.

All the memories of June with their daughter were gold hued and backlit, creating golden halos around June’s silhouette. Now, I understand that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and for Luke to hold on to the past to rescue his wife requires he remember his family as sweeter than perhaps they were in his pre-Gilead life. But this “Mother Mary” image of his wife (second wife, as we should recall) also recalls the scene in the early episodes when the rights of women were first taken away. Luke’s response to June, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

Though he might not be the one trying to take her rights away, it doesn’t bother him that much when those rights are taken. This sexist condescension, which both June and Moira challenge, makes it seem like June was never fully equal or human to him – even a good man, like Luke, has these patriarchal beliefs inside him. No wonder Gilead succeeded. Who is to say that Luke wouldn’t stop bothering to rescue his wife if he was offered a house like the Commander’s, and a Handmaid of his own? Although, Luke would never be offered these luxuries as the government considered him a criminal for marrying a second time.

All this worldbuilding, shown with just a few visual cues. So much said about where our society could head, if we don’t stay vigilant against those who would oppress us. Yet, our society (and others) already headed this way historically with slavery in the U.S. and the rape and forced breeding of Black women. Stealing children occurred in Argentina and to Indigenous people in Canada and Australia. Every oppressive tactic by Gilead in both the novel and the TV series has occurred in real life. Echoing this, director and executive producer Reed Morano told Indiewire:

“I didn’t want it feel like a period piece. That was my fear with the costumes and everything. I pushed very hard that all the uniforms in Gilead had modern elements to them. Period would defeat the purpose. There are women in the world who experience these things today, and this story is a warning it could happen here just like that. It needed to be and feel other.”

The TCAs have already heaped nominations upon The Handmaid’s Tale (along with This Is Us), the first bellwether of how this year’s awards will lean. Let’s hope that the Emmys follow suit and The Handmaid’s Tale wins the awards it rightfully deserves.

Ani Bundel is a TV writer with EliteDaily and Tellyvisions. You can find her on the internet at Anibundel.com, or on Twitter @anibundel. An anglophilic pop culture fashion junkie with a penchant for snark. All posts are approved by her cats.

Alienated Women: The Terror in Mica Levi’s Scores for ‘Under the Skin’ and ‘Jackie’

Jackie’s deeply emotional outbursts may stand in stark contrast to the alien’s lack of empathy, but both women share a troubling alienation from the people around them. Mica Levi’s scores make this alienation audible, the grim discomfort of her music allowing the audience to feel, even for 90 minutes, the terror of such a solitude.

This guest post written by Zoë Goodall originally appeared at Cause a Cine. It is cross-posted with permission.

When I saw the trailer for Pablo Larraín’s Jackie (2016), my first thought was, “Why do I feel so afraid?” I was unsurprised then, to discover that the woman behind the music was Mica Levi, who composed the score to Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin (2013). After seeing Jackie, it occurred to me the two films that Levi has composed music for have more in common than it initially appears. Under the Skin is a sci-fi angle on the femme fatale, where Scarlett Johansson plays an alien who seduces and kills men in Scotland. Jackie is the Oscar-ready biopic of Jackie Kennedy, centered on a masterfully emotive performance by Natalie Portman. Yet both films feature women who are lost, distanced from others and profoundly alone. Those around them cannot understand them, and so they are alienated. It is the haunted feeling of such alienation that Levi’s scores illuminate.

Johansson’s alien in Under the Skin is of course the more literal embodiment of alienation. She blankly visits human settings such as shopping centers and nightclubs, never sure of how to arrange her face to fit in with those around her. She lacks human empathy, illustrated starkly in a scene where she leaves a baby on a beach with a tide coming in. When she experiences sex with a human man, she is so overwhelmed that she flees. Levi’s score is fittingly otherworldly, pulsing with unidentifiable noises, the viola screeching like a wounded animal. It’s utterly unlike other film scores, giving the audience no easy emotional cues. The nails-on-chalkboard discomfort it conjures makes audible the colossal distance between the alien and humanity. One cannot relax when listening to the score, instead feeling a constant sense of dread at what this unknowable creature might do next.

This constant dread, this grim unease, are present also in Levi’s Oscar-nominated score for Jackie. Jackie, in contrast to the alien, is utterly, familiarly human. Her grief and trauma over her husband’s death is the bedrock of the narrative. The audience knows how she feels, due to Portman’s highly expressive face. Jackie is also privileged, famous, and powerful. But as the narrative demonstrates how quickly Jackie loses her power, Levi’s score highlights the instability of Jackie’s world in the aftermath of her husband’s death. The score is more lush and regal than the score for Under the Skin, in part because there’s an orchestra and in part to reflect the high-class American world that Jackie inhabits. But the discomfort that Levi brought to Under the Skin is present in Jackie, too. Many times when the score begins, it sounds light, almost cheerful, before being undercut by low, ominous strings that lurk obtrusively in the background. The result is a feeling of disturbance, that something familiar and romantic has been polluted by a grim terror.

Just as Under the Skin showed how Scotland was a completely foreign world to the alien, Jackie displays how the First Lady losing her title and home throws her into a world that’s entirely unfamiliar. Visually, this is represented through particular, subtle moments: the look of shock on Jackie’s face when Lyndon B. Johnson is greeted as “Mr President” hours after JFK’s death; the camera lingering on Lady Bird Johnson picking out new White House curtains while Jackie watches, unseen. Jackie is constantly filmed on her own, without even the presence of bodyguards or servants to lessen the impression of her alienation. Her friendship with her assistant, Nancy, is shown to be of great value to her, but the film’s repeated shots of a solitary Jackie make clear that she feels cut off from everyone around her. In the film’s final minutes, a happy sequence of her playing on the beach with her children is concluded with a close-up of her grief-stricken face, and her children out of the frame. Then, she sits alone on the couch while the Life interviewer talks on the phone. Then, at the burial of JFK, she stands starkly apart from everyone else. The final shot is of her dancing at a party in JFK’s arms, placing her feelings of joy and belonging firmly in the past.

Angelica Jade Bastién writes that Jackie uses horror movie techniques to illustrate Jackie’s grief. Levi’s score is an integral part of this, the relentless, ominous strings suggesting that life has changed for Jackie in a most terrifying way. When she finally returns to the White House from Dallas, the score is fundamentally eerie, sadness undercut with grim foreboding. It’s a score suited to a dangerous expedition into unknown territory, rather than a return home. Levi’s score communicates what doesn’t need to be said through dialogue; the White House isn’t home anymore, and Jackie’s power has disappeared with her First Lady title. The terror of being cut off from a familiar world, and the subsequent alienation, are made salient in Levi’s grim, uncomfortable music.

The alien in Under the Skin has no possessions apart from her classic predator’s white van, and the outfit she chooses to resemble the common woman. Although dressed in the finest of outfits, Jackie finds herself similarly dispossessed, telling the Life reporter that the White House and her current house never belonged to her. “Nothing’s mine, not for keeps anyway,” she tells him. Separated from the home planet or the White House, both women are anchorless, adrift. Even when surrounded by revellers in metropolitan Glasgow, or watched by thousands at her husband’s funeral, the alien and Jackie remain fundamentally alone. Haunted by their inability to connect with others, to slot in to this world, they stand lost and detached. Jackie’s deeply emotional outbursts may stand in stark contrast to the alien’s lack of empathy, but both women share a troubling alienation from the people around them. Levi’s scores make this alienation audible, the grim discomfort of her music allowing the audience to feel, even for 90 minutes, the terror of such a solitude.

Zoë Goodall is currently an Honours student and Media Coordinator for an Australian not-for-profit organization. She likes feminist film analysis, dogs, and reading Batwoman comics. She lives in Melbourne, Australia.

‘Logan’: On Death and Dying. And Mutants.

‘Logan’ is a real film. In fact, it’s more real than any comic book superhero movie has business being. … It is a beautifully crafted film. If you still think that comic books and their offspring are incapable of being high art, I urge you to give it a chance.

Written by Andrea Morgan.

Have you ever cared for someone close to you as they were dying, slowly, from some dread disease? I have. It’s terrifying, and terrible. The anticipated grief, the pure sadness that comes with seeing someone you love torn down piece by piece, is often superseded by guilt. Caretaking is dirty, annoying work. By the hundredth time you’ve wiped someone else’s ass, you hate it, they hate it, and you know that they know that you hate it. You resent their illness, as if it was a punishment unjustly inflicted upon you as a result of their moral failings. But you know this isn’t true, so you feel guilty.

This is some real bleak shit.

Logan is a real film. In fact, it’s more real than any comic book superhero movie has business being. It opens with a semi-dystopian Southwestern scene filled with some rather graphic (and, admittedly, satisfying) violence, but then slides effortlessly into mutated human drama as the titular character (played by Hugh Jackman) heads south of the border to an appropriately-dusty abandoned power station. There, Logan, and another mutant, Caliban (Stephen Merchant), are caring for Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart), aka Professor X, who is suffering from the effects of Alzheimer’s. Logan, ill himself and looking much more his 100-plus years than in the previous X-Men films, houses Xavier inside of a toppled water tower. It’s a gorgeous and suggestive set piece, both expansive and confining, rusted and full of tiny holes backlit by the desert sun.

Hugh Jackman is excellent, but here, and throughout the film, Patrick Stewart is transcendent. His depiction of illness is absolutely authentic, as is the filial love between Logan and Xavier established through subtle tones, looks, and physical displays of vulnerability and sacrifice. That love shines brightly though the bitterness and pain. I came to the film already knowing that Stewart is one of the greats, but his performance still wrecked me like I was unprepared. More than once, I wept. During a Marvel movie.

We learn that Logan is a participant in the gig economy, working as a limo driver ferrying a stream of evermore repugnant white people to earn money to acquire pharmaceuticals. These drugs are needed to counter some of the more extreme manifestations of Xavier’s illness. During this setup, Logan encounters the film’s primary baddie, Pierce (Boyd Holbrook), who channels his best Val-Kilmer-as-Doc-Holliday — and does a damn fine job of it. Logan also meets Gabriela (Elizabeth Rodriguez), who begs Logan to take her adolescent daughter, Laura (Dafne Keen), to a safe haven in North Dakota.

Of course, Laura is not just some random girl. Xavier clocks her immediately as a mutant, which is strange, because there aren’t any mutants anymore. They’ve been hunted down and killed as part of a government-sanctioned pogrom; no new mutants have been born in years. Logan reluctantly agrees to escort Laura, but Pierce and his crew of delicious hipster cyborg mercenaries (seriously, these guys use their blood money to buy craft IPAs and beard wax) have other ideas.

There is a fight, and Laura is outed as a Little Miss Badass. This trope, where a young girl, often a waif, displays combat skills incongruent with her small size and our culture’s gendered expectations, is not new. But Keen’s take on it is truly something to behold. Unlike similar characters, say Firefly’s River Tam (Summer Glau), who round out their episodic violence with adorableness and mercy, Laura is all hard, sharp, pointy bits. The ferocity that Keen brings to the role, coupled with John Mathieson’s unflinching camera work, James Mangold’s direction, and the story’s frequent violence, give the viewer plenty of opportunities to contemplate their discomfort at seeing an adolescent girl kill.

At times, Laura seems like a spiritual pair, or maybe predecessor, to Javier Bardem’s Anton Chigurh. The parallels don’t stop there. Cormac McCarthy’s pitiless fatalism, and the Coen Brother’s reverence for the American West shown in No Country for Old Men (2007), clearly influenced Logan’s story and feel.

While there are several women with speaking parts, Laura is the only female character to be given much of an arc. Two older women, both mothers, are murdered by the bad guys to help establish their evil bona fides, and to perpetuate the film’s nihilistic aesthetic.

While Logan is set in 2029, the film is very much planted in the present. Things that concern us today, like rapid technological advancement (think genetic engineering, militarized drones, and driverless vehicles), and issues that consume us today, like authoritarianism, bigotry, and immigration policy, are checked. In fact, both the southern and northern borders figure largely in the story. Logan traverses a checkpoint, ominously crowded with armed Border Patrol agents, in his daily travels into Texas. Gabriela and Laura make the long journey from Mexico City to El Paso, with Gabriela receiving a painful wound while crossing the Wall. Later, Logan, Laura, and Xavier, an unconventional family to say the least, set off on a quest for a place literally called “Eden,” from where Laura and a group of young mutants of color will try to cross into Canada to escape persecution by the U.S. Government.

You are right to expect that Laura and company don’t have an uneventful road trip. People, good and bad, die, and often. As we watch the story unfold its familiar form against the backdrop of rural America, we are forced to face our own fears of regret, death, and of a future filled with cold tech and colder government.

Logan is a beautifully crafted film. If you still think that comic books and their offspring are incapable of being high art, I urge you to give it a chance.

Andrea Morgan is a Baltimorean currently living in Denver. A Bitch Flicks staff writer, they write about film and television. Andrea is a queer person of color, and their perspective stems from a life spent on the boundaries of race, class, and gender. Andrea’s writing has also appeared on The Bilerico Project and The Rainbow Hub.

How ‘Captain America: Civil War’ Crystallizes the Problems with Marvel Movies

I realized that while I had ultimately enjoyed ‘Captain America: Civil War,’ it exemplified the worst tendency of the Marvel Cinematic Universe — namely, the avoidance of dramatic risk and legitimate emotional stakes in order to create and maintain a sense of delight and entertaining status quo.

This guest post written by Deborah Krieger appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions. | Spoilers ahead.

Recently I was discussing Captain America: Civil War with a friend, when he brought up the treatment of the character of T’Challa in the narrative of the film. Namely, he pointed out that the three Black male characters in the film — James Rhodes (Don Cheadle), Sam Wilson (Anthony Mackie), and T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman) — all serve comic relief purposes, fulfilling the stereotype of the wisecracking Black best friend. While I acknowledged that Rhodey and Sam — especially Sam — bore traces of this characterization, I was surprised that he viewed T’Challa in the same vein. After seeing the film, one of the aspects that stood out for me was Chadwick Boseman’s performance as the Black Panther, and how it brought an unexpected gravity to the proceedings of the film, and in a sense, he had the most complete character arc and greatest sense of closure in the film. Yet the more I thought about what my friend had pointed out, the more I realized that he was ultimately right: while some characters treated T’Challa with the respect his role as the King of Wakanda required (namely, Natasha), for the most part, he was a bit of a sore thumb in the way he interacted with the other characters, and tonally did not fit within the overall atmosphere of Captain America: Civil War.

Continuing this line of thought, I realized that while I had ultimately enjoyed Captain America: Civil War, it exemplified the worst tendency of the Marvel Cinematic Universe — namely, the avoidance of dramatic risk and legitimate emotional stakes in order to create and maintain a sense of delight and entertaining status quo. Upon seeing the highly-overrated Doctor Strange earlier this fall, this assessment was ultimately cemented, but I want to focus specifically on the faults of Captain America: Civil War in terms of how the Marvel Cinematic Universe plays it safe to a fault, and how the film suffers as a result.

Insufficient Stakes

When I was developing my argument for this piece, I kept coming back to the incredible commentary by my favorite film writer, Film Crit Hulk (I’m totally serious) about Star Wars: The Force Awakens. In particular, Film Crit Hulk says of The Force Awakens (de-capitalized for easier reading):

“When discussing the film J.J. openly admitted that there was a popular mantra they used while crafting The Force Awakens, where they would stop frequently and ask themselves:

‘Is this delightful?’

“Which Hulk can certainly understand, for there’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting to be delightful, nor with an audience wanting to consume something delightful… But boy howdy did the filmmakers go full-tilt in that aim and that aim alone. To the point that it seems they looked at every moment and worked backwards from the intended result.

“… And they never, ever cared if it was earned.”

When thinking about Captain America: Civil War, Film Crit Hulk’s point kept coming back to me as something that made a lot of sense about certain sequences in the movie; in particular, the much-vaunted (and extremely well-paced and choreographed) tarmac fight, when Team Cap and Team Iron Man are assembled and deliver the big fight every trailer and poster for this film promised. And it certainly is “delightful” to watch how smaller clusters within each team branch off to fight one another at varying points, how the action cuts deftly and swiftly from moment to moment: Bucky (Sebastian Stan) and Sam tackling the excitable, downright naive Peter Parker (Tom Holland) inside the terminal; Clint (Jeremy Renner) fighting both T’Challa and Natasha (Scarlett Johansson) at various points with both quips and arrows; Scott (Paul Rudd) flitting around inside Tony’s (Robert Downey Jr.) suit in his ant-size form, et cetera. Yet what should be an actual dramatic and tense sequence is undermined by the need for nearly every character to make jokes and self-referential comments, and as a result, we really don’t care what happens in this fight until Rhodes ends up its only true victim (more on that aspect later). Clint and Natasha’s exchange during the fight perfectly exemplifies the total lack of stakes:

NATASHA: “We’re still friends, rights?”

CLINT: “Depends how hard you hit me.”

Where is the danger for these two clearly-established fast friends who find themselves on opposite sides of an incredibly important and divisive conflict? Why isn’t there any risk or sense of worry that this issue might tear them apart? Even the immediate lead-up to this ultimate showdown is lacking in actual drama, opting instead to pander to the audience expectations that this scene is going to be cool and fun, which it really, really shouldn’t be. The half-hearted delivery of Steve’s (Chris Evans) attempt to convince Tony that Bucky was framed actually demonstrates a poor acting choice by Evans, and fails to match Robert Downey Jr.’s evident pain and desperation in trying to convince Steve to back down one last time.

Over the course of the fight, I kept finding myself “delighted,” to use J.J. Abrams’ word, but I wasn’t actually concerned that any of the characters were going to become a casualty of this conflict. Indeed, this entire sequence logically doesn’t even need to exist: Wanda (Elizabeth Olsen), who has telekinetic powers, could have used her gift to freeze Team Iron Man in place, allowing Steve and Bucky to get to the jet while the rest of Team Cap handled Vision (Paul Bettany), whose powers (and personality) still don’t really have much definition. In order to satisfy the studio and fan demands for this ultimate Avenger versus Avenger fight, it seems, internal continuity and danger had to exit the equation.

Character (or Lack Thereof) Issues

In Marvel’s infinite quest to match and best DC films, what once was going to be a proper sequel to Captain America: The Winter Soldier (still the best MCU film) was turned into a superhero-vs-superhero film, likely to compete with the then-upcoming Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. The film added more and more characters and gave them each important little moments of characterization and interaction, but managed to, as many have pointed out, turn Civil War into an Avengers story rather than a Captain America one. So while Civil War has been rightfully praised for introducing T’Challa and the third iteration of Peter Parker, it ultimately gave Steve’s and Bucky’s story short shrift, as well as Peggy Carter’s (Haley Atwell) passing and really anything to do with Sam Wilson — and let’s not forget Sharon Carter (Emily VanCamp), sadly reduced to a love interest, replete with a kiss absolutely no one in the theater was rooting for when I saw it. According to Emily VanCamp, the characters would spend Civil War “getting to know each other” — but what we got was a kiss that was totally unearned and completely lacking in chemistry, simply because we didn’t get much of Sharon and Steve getting to know one another. Additionally, the comics have turned Steve into a deep-cover Hydra agent and Steve has had more chemistry over the films with Bucky, Sam, or Tony, and it ultimately leaves a bad taste in my mouth: Marvel is more okay with having a Nazi Cap than a potentially bisexual Cap (who makes out with his old love interest’s niece for good measure).

Furthermore, Civil War does its titular hero a disservice by focusing so much on Tony Stark and his emotional journey at the cost of Steve’s own development. Take the crucial scene in which Tony learns that Bucky killed his parents. Somehow in Steve’s journey chasing down Bucky, he learned, off-screen, that Bucky killed his old friend Howard and Tony’s mother Maria. But we are robbed of Steve’s reaction to this news, as the film completely shifts its focus to how this secret affects Tony. When, exactly, did Steve learn this terrible truth, and when did he decide to keep it from Tony? It is, frankly, a lazy writing solution to what could have been a much more affecting climax of the film: say, for instance, that Tony and Steve both see the video of Bucky killing the Starks at the same time. Then not only would we get a glimpse at how Steve, the title character of this movie, must choose between defending Bucky or standing with Tony; additionally, if Steve and Tony find out at the same time, but Steve still chooses Bucky, that would have actually been more much more dramatic and affecting, because it would have allowed Steve to have to make this choice — this choice that defines the whole conflict of the film. Tony would still have been completely heartbroken and upset beyond all reason, but at Steve’s failure to choose his side rather than some off-screen moment where Steve decided not to tell Tony this truth we never saw Steve actually learn properly. But it seems that after the tarmac fight, Captain America: Civil War becomes, essentially, Iron Man 4, and forgets who its actual protagonist is.

The friend with whom I discussed T’Challa, and who ultimately prompted this essay, made this salient point about the way Captain America: Civil War: “His behavior played out tropes of this exotic figure doing strange/elusive things in a way that makes audiences entertained.” He also had this further general critique of the Black characters in Civil War as a whole: “The three Black characters are heavily reduced to comic functions.” These critiques are important: T’Challa’s seriousness and lack of witty quips at times makes him out to be from a different film entirely, occasionally framing him and his determined attitude as humorous, and the shroud of mystery around the whole character could be seen as an exoticizing touch. But the larger problem with the Black characters in this movie can be seen in the storylines (or lack thereof) of Sam Wilson and James Rhodes.

At least T’Challa has his own narrative and character arc; Sam, introduced in The Winter Soldier as a thoughtful ex-soldier who shares the pain of loss and the uselessness of civilian life with Steve, is in this movie to support Steve and make funny jokes the entire time, playing into the trope of the wisecracking Black sidekick friend (see: Frozone in The Incredibles). In a world in which the third Captain America movie didn’t have the Civil War plotline, we might have actually learned a little more about Sam Wilson, and his admittedly-entertaining antagonistic buddy relationship with Bucky would have had more prominence. But Sam is one of the characters from the Cap side of things, as are Bucky and Steve himself, who loses out by following this plotline.

Rhodey also performs the wisecracking friend role for Tony Stark, but also is the sole casualty of the tarmac battle — he is partially paralyzed — which is used not to develop Rhodey’s character or even give him something to do, but to create pain for Tony and incentive for him to stop Steve. Indeed, Sam’s involvement in Rhodey’s injury might have given both of these characters something more to chew on, as Sam lost his best friend to a similar kind of accident, but instead of focusing on this kind of aftermath, Rhodey’s suffering functions as motivation for Tony, who already has three-plus movies full of development and action. Where was the thematic parallel between Rhodey and Bucky, who both have military experience, similar ride-or-die relationships with their marquee-name best friends, and are both named “James”? (Where was the “Martha” moment in the final battle?!)

Lastly, the lack of an existing friendship between Steve and Tony for Civil War to destroy, makes the fact that these two square off not exactly emotionally fraught. After all, Tony and Steve, in the context of the MCU, have never actually been good friends, spending most of their interactions in the Avengers movies bickering and clashing with one another. While many fans read into these moments in shippy ways, textually, there’s no weight to Tony’s “so was I” comment: they never actually seemed to like each other, which is largely due to mischaracterization in both Avengers films, courtesy of Joss Whedon. But somehow X-Men: First Class managed to create an incredibly significant and loving friendship between Erik and Charles in just one film, only to exhaust audiences’ tear ducts at the end of the movie. But the lack of care taken with developing the rapport between Tony and Steve means that their falling-out just repeats earlier conflicts between these two, rather than actually creating something meaningful and sad.

Also, there are three women in this film with any significant screen time and they are all white. Although Florence Kasumba, as a member of the Dora Milaje, is a scene-stealer delivering the line, “Move or you will be moved.” Does Captain America: Civil War even pass the Bechdel test? Does Wanda’s and Natasha’s brief exchange about undercover work on the Lagos mission even count? Why doesn’t Natasha get more to do as Steve’s other new close friend??

Tone Problems, and What They Mean for the Future of the MCU

After a string of uniformly successful films, Marvel now has a massive problem as it plans to (hopefully) retire Steve and Tony and introduce new heroes like Black Panther, Captain Marvel, and Doctor Strange. Namely, there’s so little tone variation among characters and films that when serious characters like Black Panther are introduced, they stick out like sore thumbs. With the exception of Black Panther and Tony, Steve, and maybe Natasha, pretty much every character in Civil War is the comic relief, particularly Peter and Scott, but also Clint and Vision. Nearly every single character in these movies has the same habit of throwing out one-liners in the middle of fight scenes, mingled with references to popular culture that will probably get dated in ten years. (Doctor Strange, which relies on Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch) referencing Adele and Beyoncé, is a particularly bad offender). There isn’t any sense of trying to create a story that will stand on its own merits. Instead, people come out remembering the jokes and how cool the battles were; a trend that is generally true for all MCU films (especially Avengers, Ant-Man, and Thor). In contrast, Fox Studios’ X-Men movies, X-Men and X2: X-Men United, focus on characterization and the place of mutants within society and still hold up over a decade later. The scene in X2 where Bobby’s mutant “coming-out” scene poignantly resembles a painful coming out of the closet for LGBTQ people, and so it actually matters. Who is going to remember Ant-Man in ten years, despite Paul Rudd being a national treasure worthy of protection by Nic Cage?

In short, while Captain America: Civil War, is a competent, largely well-acted film, it’s far enough in the studio mold of the MCU that it is a major example of where the cracks are beginning to show. It presents the MCU with a major decision to make: will the next phase take T’Challa as its cue and focus on narratives with a more dramatic, serious tone, or will they all be light, pseudo-intellectual Doctor Strange clones (who is in turn a knockoff of Tony Stark in these movies)? “With great power comes great responsibility,” and with the cultural cachet and economic influence of the MCU, they arguably have the responsibility to do better.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Scarlet Witch and Kitty Pryde: Erased Jewish Superheroines

Why Black Widow Is the “Realest” Superheroine of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (Yes, Even After All Those Tropes)

Why Scarlet Witch May Be the Future of Women in the Marvel Cinematic Universe

Deborah Krieger is a senior at Swarthmore College, studying art history, film and media studies, and German. She has written for Hyperallergic, Hooligan Magazine, the Northwestern Art Review, The Stake, and Title Magazine. She also runs her own art blog, I On the Arts, and curates her life in pictures @Debonthearts on Instagram.

In ‘Arrival,’ Amy Adams is the Superhero We Need Right Now

‘Arrival’ is yet another in a long line of alien invasion movies, but it’s also so much more than that. It’s the story of a single extraordinary woman who steps up to save the human race, armed with nothing more than her ability to communicate. It’s a story of hope — and it’s one that audiences need to hear right now.

This guest post written by Lee Jutton originally appeared at her blog. It is cross-posted with permission.

How do you make an epic about saving the entire world feel as intimate as a independent film? How do you tell a story with such high stakes while still managing to make the audience feel emotionally connected to the individual people involved? With Arrival, director Denis Villeneuve and his collaborators make this incredible task look easy — and utterly gorgeous to boot. Adapted by screenwriter Eric Heisserer from Ted Chiang’s short story “Story of Your Life,” Arrival is yet another in a long line of alien invasion movies, but it’s also so much more than that. It’s the story of a single extraordinary woman who steps up to save the human race, armed with nothing more than her ability to communicate. It’s a story of hope — and it’s one that audiences need to hear right now.

That said woman is played by Amy Adams, who makes her all the more compelling. Adams is not only one of the most consistent actresses working today — turning out brilliant performances in such diverse films as Junebug, Enchanted, The Master, and Big Eyes, just to name a few — she’s also one of the most subtle. Her performances never rely on flashy gimmicks or method madness; she can easily disappear inside a character without the aid of wigs and weight gain. Her presence as Lois Lane in the Man of Steel movies instantly classes up proceedings — at least, as much as is possible when Zack Snyder is involved. In Arrival, Adams portrays a very different kind of superhero than the ones she hobnobs with in the dour DC universe, and her quietly intense performance as linguistics professor Dr. Louise Banks is one that stands out even among her impressive body of work.

Louise is living a lonely life in a big house, teaching at an anonymous university during the day and gulping glasses of red wine at night, when she’s enlisted by Colonel Weber (Forest Whitaker) to do what seems to be the impossible. Twelve black obelisks have appeared out of nowhere and are floating above a diverse array of locations across the globe. Teaming up with brash astrophysicist Ian (Jeremy Renner), Louise is sent to the obelisk in Montana to find a way to communicate with the extraterrestrials inside. She uses written words on flashcards to get the aliens — dubbed “heptopods” for their seven squid-like legs — to share their own written method of communication, a series of intricate rings reminiscent of the stains produced by coffee mugs. Louise’s painstaking work seems slow to the military men around her, whose trigger fingers are growing itchy from watching too many giddily paranoid news broadcasts (an example of the power of communication used for ill if there ever was one), but gradually she produces results.

One doesn’t think of writing words on flashcards as the epitome of action-packed, but in Arrival these moments are surprisingly engaging. A scene in which Louise explains to an impatient Colonel Weber the numerous steps that need to be taken before asking the aliens what brought them to Earth — pointing out that one has to teach the aliens what a question even is before one can ask them one, then breaking down the various grammatical elements of the question on a whiteboard — is a phenomenal glimpse inside the weird world of linguistics, a world that I admit was almost entirely foreign to me going into the movie. So impressive is Louise’s mastery of language that it feels like a superpower — an unlikely one, to be sure, but one that proves highly effective.

I don’t want to reveal more of the plot of the film for fear of ruining it for others; suffice to say that in Arrival, humans are just as much of a threat to the future of Earth as their alien visitors, if not more so. Throughout it all, Louise remains the quietly heroic heart of the movie, determined to do whatever it takes to maintain the heptopods’ tenuous new relationship with humanity. One doesn’t necessarily root for the human race in Arrival; one roots for our heroine, and it just so happens that the fate of the human race is tied to her success. The story edges its way along a tightrope of tension and never grows boring despite the startling lack of such science-fiction standbys as spaceship shoot-outs and special effects-induced explosions (okay, there’s one explosion). It handles sophisticated topics in a way that feels accessible to the average moviegoer, though one shouldn’t be shocked that a film focused on communication expresses itself so elegantly; despite the potential for pretentiousness, one never feels talked down to by Arrival.

The success of Arrival is not entirely due to Amy Adams’ performance as Louise, though it is a substantial part of it. Jóhann Jóhannsson’s appropriately otherworldly score sets the mood throughout the film, and is an ideal match for Bradford Young’s ethereal cinematography. Young (Ain’t Them Bodies Saints, Selma) is a master of using only available, natural light to create beautiful images, and Arrival is no exception. This combination of sound and image results in perfectly crafted moments that are as epic as anything in Kubrick’s classic 2001: A Space Odyssey — the highest praise I can give any film in this genre. The first reveal of the heptopods will make your heart leap into your throat, and stands out in my mind as one of the most memorable cinematic moments of the year.

Arrival has entered theaters as the people of the United States are reeling from the result of our most recent presidential election, and it’s likely we’ll all continue to reel for quite some time. And while cinematic escapism is only a temporary solution to the anxiety that plagues so many of us, Arrival is that rare film that provides a much-needed escape from our real world while also containing a timely message for it. In a world increasingly on edge, with conflict always hovering on the horizon, it would do us all some good to be reminded of the power of communication to maintain peace. And for little girls around the world who long to see people who look like them saving the world, Arrival is a wonderful (and unfortunately necessary) reminder that yes, women can be heroes too.

Lee Jutton has directed short films starring a killer toaster, a killer Christmas tree, and a not-killer leopard. She previously reviewed new DVD and theatrical releases as a staff writer for Just Press Play and currently reviews television shows as a staff writer for TV Fanatic. You can follow her on Medium for more film reviews and on Twitter for an excessive amount of opinions on German soccer.

‘The Faculty’: Gender, Dialogue, and Naked Alien Space Monsters

How did these male filmmakers make a movie marketed to men full of female characters who actually get the majority of the dialogue? I’m about to crack the code and share the secret — are you ready to become enlightened? Here’s how they did it: They included female characters and gave them lines. WHAT. Yes, it’s that simple.

Written by Mychael Elaine.

Do you love feminism and space monsters? This essay is for you!

A note to my non-binary readers: This essay takes a super reductive approach to gender. In order to address systemic sexism in the film industry, I’m using charts that graph dialogue spoken by characters listed either as “Male” or “Female,” and I’m using language like “men” and “women” as though there were nothing outside of that binary. It is not my intent to erase you. It is my hope that soon we will experience such a proliferation of non-binary representation that graphs like these become outdated because they don’t include you.

A note to my binary readers: Are you wondering what this “non-binary” thing is all about? Here are some links to resources that will help you understand what it means and why it’s important.

In The Faculty, six teens grapple with angst and aliens at their small town high school. The film was released in 1998, way before smartphones, when movie-teen research happened in makeshift garage labs and movie-teen scientific conclusions were drawn from classic works of literature. (#oldmillennial #oregontrailgeneration)

Eighteen years later, women are shattering glass ceilings all over the place, but men still talk way more than women, at work and in films. From a Time article titled “Why Women Talk Less Than Men at Work” published last month:

“Study after study has shown that women are interrupted (by both genders) more than men; that men speak significantly more in meetings than women do (one study found they account for 75% of conversation); that even when women speak less they are perceived to have spoken more…”

Here’s how this all plays out in the dialogue breakdown of high-grossing, blockbuster films:

Data courtesy of Polygraph — click here to visit the site and explore their data.
I’ve made slight modifications to my screenshot of Polygraph’s site for clarity.

Like the Bechdel Test, Polygraph’s analysis brings beautiful, cold, hard data to aid in discussions about representations of gender in popular culture. It isn’t surprising to look at this data and see how much men obviously dominate film dialogue, but boy is it depressing. So how do we fight against it?

Enter the space monsters.

A quick glance at The Faculty might lead you to believe that male characters speak the majority of lines in the film. Here are three reasons why:

The Faculty’s key creators are men: director, Robert Rodriguez; story, David Wechter and Bruce Kimmel; screenplay, Kevin Williamson.
The cover of the DVD and the movie poster both feature male characters most prominently.
There isn’t much dialogue in the trailer, but the three people who speak are all men. (A woman gets to scream, though! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAREPRESENTATIONAAAAAA!!!!)

All signs point to a film made by men, for men. (Of course, ostensibly the film was made for all genders. Thank you, patriarchy!)

But look at where The Faculty lives on this graph:

I’ve made slight modifications to my screenshot of Polygraph’s site for clarity.

How did these male filmmakers make a movie marketed to men full of female characters who actually get the majority of the dialogue?

I’m about to crack the code and share the secret — are you ready to become enlightened? Here’s how they did it:

They included female characters and gave them lines.

WHAT.

Yes, it’s that simple.

There’s a scene in the film where the teens are wondering why on earth aliens would be on earth in their little town in Ohio:

Stan (mocking): Alright Casey… let’s go alien for a second… Why here? Why Ohio?

Casey: If you were going to take over the world, would you blow up the White
House, Independence Day style, or sneak in through the back door?

Women don’t speak in The Faculty’s trailer and aren’t featured prominently in the movie’s promotional materials – instead, they sneak in through the film’s back door.

Am I arguing that we should purposefully exclude women from promotional materials to “trick” men into watching films filled with ladies? Absolutely not. But in 1998, women couldn’t blow up the cinematic White House, Ghostbusters 2016 style.

And let’s face it, it’s 2016 and this happened…

In a perfect world, men would never fall prey to the mindset that if a story is about women then it is exclusively for women, but they still do. And they’re still being raised to do so. One tactic to combat the disparity in women’s representation in films is to make like a parasitic alien and get sneaky.

How do women infiltrate this movie? The Faculty makes it look easy.

First of all, there are lots of great lady side characters: Salma Hayek as Nurse Harper, Bebe Neuwirth as Principal Drake, Famke Janssen as Ms. Burke, Piper Laurie as Mrs. Olson.

Then, of the six main characters, three are women and three are men. And, as an added bonus, the women aren’t damsels in distress – they are afforded agency and impact on the film’s plot.

Delilah (Jordana Brewster) is confident and competent and takes no shit:

Stokely (Clea DuVall) is intelligent and insightful and brave:

Stokely also takes no shit

Mary Beth Louise Hutchinson (Laura Harris) is charismatic to the max and also the powerful evil space alien intent on taking over the planet:

Ah yes, Mary Beth Louise Hutchinson. We’ve talked about gender and dialogue, now let’s get to the naked space alien.

Some might argue that this is yet another needlessly exploitative display of the female body in film, perpetuated by yet another group of male filmmakers. And those who would argue this are not wrong – women’s bodies are exploited pretty much everywhere and all the time.

But here’s why I dig Mary Beth’s naked alien scene. Naked women in horror films are often victims of horrible atrocities. This time it’s the naked woman who wields all the terrifying power. When tough-guy Zeke first sees her in the locker room walking around naked, the teenage boy is not filled with lust, but with fear. You can hear the horror in his voice when he asks, “Mary Beth…why are you naked?”

Her nudity is terrifying: her nakedness is out of place; she is out of place – she is a powerful and dangerous adversary. And even though ultimately she morphs into a giant worm-blob and Casey smashes her with gym bleachers, this moment — the scary naked woman moment — is a subversion I always enjoy.

Despite all of the above, The Faculty is not perfect. Here are a few issues:

Lack of Diversity: The DVD and poster might lead you to believe that Usher is the only character of color in the film. Other than Salma Hayek, this is pretty much true. This movie is full of white people. White people space aliens.

Don’t invest time in this movie if you are looking for characters of color, characters with disabilities, or queer characters. (Stokely is briefly identified as a lesbian, but it turns out she’s faking it to make people stay away from her, so…)

Yucky Masculinity: The film suffers from some pretty standard icky representations of men. It glorifies the asshole with a heart of gold (Zeke loves science!) and romanticizes the Nice Guy ™ (Casey loves Delilah!).

Plus What’s With the Ending? I can’t wrap my head around it. Everyone is coupled up all happily and heterosexually, like it’s the end of a Shakespeare comedy and time for everyone to get married. Zeke is on the football team? He and Ms. Burke are a… couple? Stokely is wearing lavender?!

Maybe the message is that only when you defeat naked parasitic space aliens will you achieve self-actualization. But part of me wants to believe that there’s something more sinister going on here. Does the teens’ conformity to societal norms mirror the conformity of those infected by aliens? Are socio-cultural expectations the true mind-controlling parasite?

Probably not.

Anyway, here’s my conclusion: The Faculty isn’t a feminist masterpiece, but it proves that it is possible for men sell a film to a male audience and fill it full of women who get to take up time and space. Women should get to take up space. All marginalized people should get to take up space.

We need to pay attention to who gets to speak, and how often they speak, and for how long. We need to be cognizant of the disproportionate allocation of dialogue to men and to women, to white people and to people of color, to the privileged and the oppressed. We need to make space for all minority groups, on our movie screens and at our places of employment. We can’t do that if we don’t pay attention to who gets to speak.

Mychael Elaine is a Bitch Flicks staff writer and writes about representations of gender in horror films at Vagina Dentwata.

‘Firefly’: Mixed Messages on Inara’s Sexuality

In ‘Firefly,’ women can be strong, they can be independent, they can be respected, but they are still fetishized for their sexual choices. Inara’s queerness is less a way to incorporate diverse sexuality into the show and more to stoke a fantasy of women for the consumption of heterosexual men.

This guest post written by A Little Tiefling appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

Previous articles have discussed the less-than-egalitarian portrayal of Inara Serra on Joss Whedon’s cult television series, Firefly, in her role as respected sex worker. But the framing of her sexuality is also far more traditionally heteronormative than it first appears.

Inara Serra (Morena Baccarin) is a Companion: more than a high-class escort, she has been trained in Tantric mysticism, the arts, etiquette etc. Companions are so respected that they can select their clients and command huge sums. They can also afford to reject clients, unlike their lower class counterparts who have far less freedom to turn down income. All this suggests Companions choose clients based on personal preferences, including sexual ones.

Inara selects patrons with whom she shares chemistry. In the episode “Shindig,” she rejects a timid male suitor and selects Atherton Wing (Edward Atterton), a confident and attractive man. Thus the show establishes Inara exercising control over her partners. It should be noted that in the same episode, two women can be seen among Inara’s potential clients, but she has no further interactions with them and even rejects one before speaking to her.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKVqNcRj_sY”]

Inara’s clients are overwhelmingly male. She says it herself to her one on-screen female client. This can only partly be chalked up to the seediness of Serenity’s crew and shipping routes. Inara has a large measure of freedom, being able to pilot her shuttle to more cosmopolitan ports than what her traveling companions can access. And yet, the female client with whom Inara seems to have a strong affection is never seen again. She’s never mentioned again. Their brief sexual encounter lasts a short time, but there are many lingering moments of heterosexual sex. Inara never interacts with another woman in the same intimate and sexual manner, though in theory she has the complete freedom to. She’s even portrayed to have a close platonic friendship with engineer Kaylee (Jewel Staite).

The show could have evolved their friendship into something more romantic or at least give the women time to discuss their closeness. There is some subtextual support that Kaylee has romantic feelings for Inara. They spend at least one scene grooming each other’s hair and discussing love and sex. However, Kaylee, who is just as openly sexual as Inara, pines for a man, while Inara has conflicted feelings for Captain Malcolm Reynolds (Nathan Fillion). This is where the show undercuts Inara’s sexual freedom further. Inara’s interactions with other women, whether openly sexual or hinted, are used primarily to antagonize Mal into more open declarations of his own feelings.

In the episode “War Stories,” there’s a scene of Inara engaging with a female client whom she clearly deeply likes. She spends time worrying about the state of Serenity and discusses the woman in intimate terms, as “a very private person.” The scene suggests friendship as well as desire, based on the women’s body language and interactions. They hold a lingering smile and walk side by side, rather than The Councilor (Katherine Kendall) leading Inara. This isn’t a client Inara considers a one-off, but someone she’s met before and enjoys the company of.

A later intimate scene shows Inara giving the woman a massage, helping her to relax and in turn relaxing herself. Inara’s sexuality is clear from the way she is at ease around the councilor. She sought out a female client, alone, not as part of an MFF threesome or because she needed the money. This should have demonstrated Inara acting on her sexual preferences. However, the scene is undercut by the heteronormative tone of the bulk of the show.

Upon learning that Inara has been engaged by a female client, Jayne (Adam Baldwin), Mal, and Kaylee all express some form of arousal, and in Book (Ron Glass)’s case, shock. This grossly inappropriate behavior serves to fetishize Inara’s relationship with a woman. To rub salt in the wound, rather than behave as the flashy Atherton, who flaunts his assignations with Inara, the female client is “private” and desires to meet Inara in secret; as though she is ashamed.

Inara is not a queer woman with the autonomy to choose her clients, as the show tells us. Inara’s requests for respect and privacy with the female councillor go ignored. Instead, the show fetishizes her relationship, mirroring the in-universe delight demonstrated by the observers. Inara’s behavior isn’t her private choice, but meant to be publicly consumed for the titillation of both Mal and Jayne and the audience of the show.

In the episode “Our Mrs. Reynolds,” Mal is both fascinated and smug about Inara’s supposed kiss with Saffron (Christina Hendricks). Inara herself recognizes Saffron’s strategy of seduction and tries to turn it back on her, unsuccessfully. It’s Saffron’s open seduction that makes Inara suspect the con-artist had Companion training. This suggests less that Companions are allowed and encouraged to pursue same-sex relationships and more that they are trained for same-sex flirtation, that all Companions are “gay for pay” and not queer because they follow the human spectrum of sexualities. “War Stories” demonstrates that “gay for pay” attitude extends to the crew. The music of the scene, the over-the-top shock and delight expressed by the observers, all suggest that Inara’s taking a female client is new, faintly ridiculous, or something to be fantasized about but not pursued in depth.

This fetishization of Inara’s (and Kaylee’s, and Saffron’s) queerness further undermines the supposed egalitarian nature of Whedon’s universe. Women can be strong, they can be independent, they can be respected, but they are still fetishized for their sexual choices. Inara’s queerness is less a way to incorporate diverse sexuality into the show and more to stoke a fantasy of women for the consumption of heterosexual men. This is not a progressive view, especially of bisexuality, which is one of the least-portrayed of human sexualities in film and television, while one of the most misrepresented and fetishized. Firefly did not have the time to develop human relationships as fully as it could have, had it not been cancelled after one season. But the relationships that are developed are overwhelmingly heterosexual or heteronormative. Inara may be bisexual, but her queerness is fleeting and fetishized. Her primary role on the show is of teasing love interest. Even her queerness is less about her own autonomy and more about her objectification and sexualized image.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Inara Serra and the Future of Sex Work
The Strong, Intelligent and Diverse Women of Firefly and Serenity

A Little Tiefling is a mild-mannered library worker by day and tarantula-loving guinea pig herder by night. Like all tieflings, this one is interested in writing on matters of sex, desire and the odder things in life.

‘Orphan Black’ and the Breakdown of Tokenization

This scene, a scene in which an assumed-to-be heterosexual protagonist casually courts another woman, is significant because Sarah is one of three queer women – two of whom are bi – on a single television show, each of whom experiences their queerness differently. … Sarah, Cosima, and Delphine are three very different women with different narratives, inhabiting their queerness in three disparate ways.

This guest post written by Alenka Figa appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

[Trigger warning: Discussion of suicide and suicidal ideation]

When it comes to exciting portrayals of complex, realistic women on television, Orphan Black is a stand out. The entire premise focuses on how women are often portrayed as one-note and interchangeable, and flips that concept on its head. Similarly, the show places several exceptional queer characters front and center. Whether it’s Felix (Jordan Gavaris) painting phallus-filled murals while doing mountains of emotional labor to hold Clone Club together, Cosima (Tatiana Maslany) doing science to solve complex genetic mysteries, Tony (Tatiana Maslany) committing crimes hardcore enough to involve bullets, or Delphine (Évelyne Brochu) attempting corporate takeovers and doing even more science on the side, each queer person has a story arc and personality outside of their sexualities. In its most recent season, Orphan Black again upped the ante: they revealed that Sarah Manning (Tatiana Maslany), the clone who first introduced us to this whole, glorious mess, is also bisexual.

Orphan Black is not a perfect example of bisexual representation done right; as Erin Tatum noted in her article, season one delivered a Delphine with all the markings of the Duplicitous Bisexual trope. However, outside of her romance with Cosima, Delphine is a layered and interesting character. Her storylines are exciting; as a scientist who has been connected to Neolution from the get-go, she had the leverage to become a political player, and while she values power, she also strives to maintain her moral code. Personally, I have more of a soft spot for Cosima – dear Orphan Black writers, please know that whenever Cosima cries, I lose it – but I found the non-romantic aspects of her and Delphine’s intertwined storylines more compelling.

“The Antisocialism of Sex,” an episode from season 4 in which everyone fell apart, did away with all those “Romance? Meh,” feelings. At the beginning of the episode, it’s clear that Sarah has hit rock bottom. Her plan to barter with Evie Cho (Jessalyn Wanlim) and secure a cure backfired, resulting in Kendall (Alison Steadman)’s death and the loss of Cosima’s research data – which could mean losing Cosima and all her sisters to the illness built into their DNA. Haunted by visions of Beth (Tatiana Maslany), Sarah embarks on a reckless bender that seems to be leading her to suicide. However, as she drowns her emotions in whiskey shots, she searches for another way to drown, or perhaps to cling onto life: sex, specifically a hook-up that involves another woman.

There are several possible, trope-ridden errors that the writers could have made in this scene. At this point in the series, it would be easy to write this encounter off as a straight woman engaging in a threesome, or as writers pandering to an audience who have come to expect Sarah to have some sexy scenes. However, the entire hook-up is crafted to emphasize that Sarah’s primary interest is in Elle (Brooke Palsson), the woman. When Sarah first scans the crowd she briefly spies Tito (James Cade) – who Elle refers to as “my man” – but the camera quickly pans over to Elle, who bites her lower lip at Sarah. The camera then pulls back to give us a full body shot of Elle before cutting to Sarah, whose gaze has ceased to wander and is clearly focused on this new woman. Sarah puts her arm around Elle first, takes her hand to pull her to the dance floor, touches Elle’s hips, and even gives Tito a dark look when he breaks up their initial smooch fest. While she’s clearly invested in a threesome, her distinct attraction to Elle is distinctly present.

This scene, a scene in which an assumed-to-be heterosexual protagonist casually courts another woman, is significant because Sarah is one of three queer women – two of whom are bi – on a single television show, each of whom experiences their queerness differently.

Anyone fortunate enough to have many queer-identified friends will confirm that queer – and bi, pan, fluid, and gay – women are real, complex human beings with diverse personalities. As real human beings do, queer women carry their experiences differently. Some have been so comfortable with their identities for so long that it doesn’t occur to them to disclose, while others purposefully avoid labels because no label feels quite right, or because they hope to challenge assumed heterosexuality, and for myriad other reasons. Others bear the burden of internalized biphobia, anxiety, and other mental health issues tied to having a stigmatized identity. Some want to share their pride in their sexuality by discussing it loudly. However, if you look to television or film, what you generally get are bisexual characters whose main personality trait is being a Bisexual Trope. Tokenization narrows the world’s view of bisexual people, and it is so commonplace that each one-dimensional, denigrating portrayal is another kick against a bi fighter already down.

A pleasant side effect of placing multiple and unique queer women on the same screen is that tropes and stereotypes have less weight. When it clicked in my mind that Sarah is also bisexual, I immediately felt more invested in Cosima and Delphine. These are three very different women with different narratives, inhabiting their queerness in three disparate ways. Rather than seeing myself represented in a single character, I felt seen because I knew that my unique experience of my own identity was just as valid as those on the screen. I am queer and I am bi, but my queerness is not your queerness, and that is beautiful.

The only way we will reach a tipping point for bisexual representation is to put multidimensional bi characters on-screen at the same time — Orphan Black has given us a taste of the excitement and joy such representation offers. It’s time for everyone else to try harder, and do better.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Feminism in Orphan Black
Why We Need to Stop Worshipping the Elusive Heteroflexible Femme
Trans Men on TV: Orphan Black and Tony the Trans Bandit
Orphan Black: It’s All About the Ladies

Alenka Figa is a queer, feminist, wannabe librarian. She spends her days teaching people how to attach things to their email, watching Steven Universe, and twittering nonstop about comics and her cat at @alenkafiga.

Who Controls the ‘ARQ’ in the Time Travel Sci-Fi Thriller?

The characters are thrown into an adrenaline-fueled, confusing, science-fiction quest from scene one. They don’t have time to make anything more than impulsive decisions, there’s a plot twist every time they think they know what’s going on, and every double-cross turns out to be a double-double-double cross instead. The story doesn’t always make sense, but it’s a wild ride that holds your interest from beginning to end.

Written by Katherine Murray.

ARQ, Tony Elliott’s new Netflix movie, delivers about what you’d expect from a writer for Orphan Black. The characters are thrown into an adrenaline-fueled, confusing, science-fiction quest from scene one. They don’t have time to make anything more than impulsive decisions, there’s a plot twist every time they think they know what’s going on, and every double-cross turns out to be a double-double-double cross instead. The story doesn’t always make sense, but it’s a wild ride that holds your interest from beginning to end.

The protagonist is a man named Renton (Robbie Amell) who invented a powerful generator called the ARQ (pronounced “ark”). There’s a fragmented back story about how he stole the ARQ from the evil corporation he used to work for, in a dystopian future where power and food are both hard to come by. The ARQ could be the difference between winning and losing a war between the corporation and a rebel army called the Block, but Renton’s concerned about some anomalous readings it’s giving off. Just as Renton’s house is stormed by Block members who want to steal the ARQ, the ARQ creates a three-hour time loop, trapping Renton and his attackers inside. Renton is the only one who remembers what happened in previous loops; he needs to figure out how to survive, protect the ARQ, and reconcile with his mysterious, newly-returned partner, Hannah (Rachael Taylor).

I have some questions about how the time loop works in ARQ, which I won’t ask here, because they would spoil some of the surprises in the latter half of the film, but, suffice to say, the rules get more complicated as they go, and the complications don’t always make sense.

What I do need to spoil a little bit is Renton’s relationship with Hannah, because the way it plays out isn’t especially thoughtful. At the start of the film, Hannah’s sleeping beside him, just before the Block bursts in, and we later learn that she tracked him down only the night before, after a long absence that began when she was arrested by the corporation. She has an agenda of her own that’s revealed as the movie goes on. But she’s mostly an ally to Renton and – to be completely frank about it – something else he has to carry through this situation, so that it isn’t too easy for him.

Early in the film, Renton is the only one who remembers the time loops and he literally leads Hannah through the house by the hand to evade the Block – this pretty much makes sense, because he knows what’s around each corner and she doesn’t. Later in the film, Hannah starts to remember the time loops as well but, for some reason, this doesn’t change the dynamic where she follows his lead on every single decision – even when they have contradictory goals. On the one hand, Renton is the best chance she has of ending the time loop and anything she does will be for nothing as long as the day keeps resetting, so it makes sense to cooperate with him. On the other hand, Hannah’s primary function in the story is to be an extra person that can die, thereby preventing Renton from stopping the time loop, because he wants to find a solution where both of them live.

It’s a little bit reminiscent of Edge of Tomorrow, except that Emily Blunt’s character was a lot more active in that movie, and the writers got mileage out of the idea that the one person who could remember what was happening was also least suited to do anything about it. In ARQ, it seems like Renton would be better off on his own and Hannah exists to be an extra obstacle that slows him down.

There’s also a love triangle in the story that’s more of a line with a dot beside it. Or a symbol like x_x. In the time Hannah’s been away from Renton, she’s changed a lot, due to some rough experiences, and fallen in love with someone else. That person, happily, is also trapped in the time loop and keeps getting killed. After the first time it happens, Hannah hardly bats an eye at that or at the idea that she and Renton should end the time loop anyway, as long as they both survive. Taken to its natural extreme, this could have been an interesting idea – if Renton keeps resetting the loop because he loves Hannah, and Hannah loves this other person, and this other person loves someone else… on and on until he has to find three hours where nobody in the entire world dies. Unfortunately, the story has a laser focus on what Renton wants, and Renton only wants Hannah to survive. It’s actually better for him if her partner doesn’t make it.

ARQ isn’t a bad movie, and it fits within the Netflix wheelhouse in that it’s so addictive you won’t want to stop once you’ve started. It does suffer from the same kind of emptiness beneath Orphan Black. Once you strip out all the plot twists, there isn’t much of a message underneath and the characters mostly seem motivated to make the story work. The film also doesn’t seem like it reflects on the situation very much, beyond trying to build a framework for more double-crosses and plot twists.

Still, if you’re hungry for more Orphan Black, because you miss feeling confused and enthralled, ARQ is worth checking out.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies, TV and video games on her blog.

‘Colossal’ and ‘Lady Macbeth’ Tell Similar Stories of Violence and Empowerment at TIFF

Both Nacho Vigalondo’s monster movie, ‘Colossal,’ and William Oldroyd’s period piece, ‘Lady Macbeth,’ are solid, carefully-made films built around a stunning performance from their lead actors – Anne Hathaway and Florence Pugh, respectively – and both tell the story of a woman surrounded by men who try to control her. Rightly or wrongly, both films also seem to presume that the best way for women to be strong and empowered is through physical violence.

Written by Katherine Murray.

Last week, the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) saw the world premieres of Nacho Vigalondo’s monster movie, Colossal, and William Oldroyd’s period piece, Lady Macbeth. Both of these are solid, carefully-made films built around a stunning performance from their lead actors – Anne Hathaway and Florence Pugh, respectively – and both tell the story of a woman surrounded by men who try to control her. Rightly or wrongly, both films also seem to presume that the best way for women to be strong and empowered is through physical violence.

In Colossal, Gloria (Anne Hathaway) struggles with problematic drinking, got fired from her job, and kicked out of her boyfriend’s apartment. She moves back to her home town to get her life together, but soon discovers that she’s psychically linked to a monster that appears in South Korea every morning to blindly stumble into skyscrapers, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction in its wake. This sounds like a completely bizarre and preposterous premise, but it works really well in the film. At first, it seems that Gloria will have to pull back on her drinking and behave in a more responsible way to deal with the monster, but it slowly becomes clear that there’s another antagonist in this story. At the risk of revealing one of the best twists in the film, it turns out that Gloria’s nice guy childhood friend, who initially seems destined to be her romantic interest, is actually a Nice Guy childhood friend – in that he secretly hates and fears women, and only pretends to be friends with them because he’s angling for sex. The second half of the film is about him getting increasingly vile and misogynist while she struggles to stand up to him.

At the screening I attended, Vigalondo explained that he’d been editing the film right up until the premiere and joked that all he could see were the mistakes he made. However, the mistakes don’t really show. There’s a little bit of fuzzy logic about the monster, and its origin story is built up to be more than it is but, overall, the film seems technically well-made and takes us on an understandable and unexpected emotional journey. The degree to which you enjoy this movie will be mediated by your Matrix quotient – meaning, if you were annoyed that Neo and Trinity killed a bunch of innocent people so they could look cool in The Matrix, you will be annoyed that Anne Hathaway’s monster kills a bunch of innocent people by drunkenly stumbling into a skyscraper. Colossal makes more of these deaths than The Matrix did, but not as much as it makes of the pain Gloria suffers herself.

That said, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Colossal and, even though I’m about to question the film’s use of violence as a path to power, this is a movie that deserves to land a distributor, so as many people can watch it as possible. There are interesting conversations to be had about the film, once it’s part of the cultural landscape.

Lady Macbeth is complicated, in that it’s an adaptation of an opera that was an adaptation of a Russian novel called Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, which does not, itself, have anything to do with Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Set in England, in the 1860s, the film follows Katherine (Florence Pugh), a woman who marries into a modestly wealthy family that hates her. The first act of the film depicts Katherine’s life as an endurance test – physical discomfort, humiliation, isolation, boredom, sleep deprivation, celibacy – that will apparently go on forever. By the time the murders start – and there are lots of murders in this film – we’re on her side.

This is Oldroyd’s first feature film (written by Alice Birch), after working mostly in theatre and, although everything looks gorgeous, there’s an overall broadness to the movie that would work better on-stage. All of the physical violence in the film is blocked and shot in ways that reveal it as pantomime; every line of dialogue and sound effect is crisp and loud as though there’s a chance we might not hear it.

Katherine intentionally goes from being sympathetic to villainous over the course of the film, and there are unanswered questions about some events – including what looks like a possible gang rape. The best explanation for the story came from Naomi Ackie, the actor who plays Katherine’s servant, Anna. During a Q&A, Ackie explained that to her, Lady Macbeth is about the choices people have when they’re oppressed, and how intersectionality leaves each of the characters with different options. The option Katherine chooses is to kill anyone who threatens her freedom and – without giving away too much – Gloria eventually resorts to violence in Colossal, too.

On the one hand, it feels great to watch these women fight back against men who threaten violence or have used physical violence to make them subservient – I got really emotional watching Colossal, and appreciated the care Vigalondo took developing the situation and exploring the misogynist undercurrents in what initially appears to be harmless behavior. There’s also a great moment in Lady Macbeth where Katherine stares at her father-in-law impassively during an outburst, and you can tell it’s because she’s already planned his death – it’s a much-welcome change after watching her bow to his wishes earlier in the film. On the other hand, watching these women meet violence with violence reinforces the idea that the best or only way to have power is to beat or kill someone else, which is an idea that’s bad for women (and many men) in the long run.

Men’s domination of women has historically hinged on physical strength and threats or deeds of violence. Although both Colossal and Lady Macbeth seem to propose that the best way for women to end their oppression is also through violence, the biggest gains women have made collectively in society didn’t happen because we started to beat men up – they followed from cultural change that placed more value on freedom, democracy, and equality. Some may argue that it’s important for women to learn to physically defend themselves, but the best way for us to ensure that women are treated like people rather than property is through dismantling intersecting systems of oppression and claiming an equal share of political, economic, and social power. Until we have that, women’s rights are an experiment that men can end at any time.

As committed to empowering women as both of these movies are – and I don’t doubt their commitment – the road to power on-screen looks a lot different than the road to power we’ve taken and probably should continue to take in life.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies, TV, and video games on her blog.