Science Fiction – Page 2

In Rewatching ‘The X-Files,’ One Thing Is Clear: Mulder Is a Real Jerk

I realized something even worse: Agent Mulder is not a dreamboat. In fact, he’s an asshole. An asshole who spends most of the series mansplaining to Agent Scully. … Twenty years after ‘The X-Files’ debuted, it’s still rare to see a female character who’s as complicated and resilient as Scully — especially who works in science.

This guest post written by Sarah Mirk originally appeared at Bitch Media and appears here as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. It is cross-posted with permission.

When I was in junior high, I had one major extracurricular activity: watching The X-Files. I loved the spookiness and the drama surrounding FBI agents Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) and Fox Mulder (David Duchovny). During the long summer months, I got X-Files consumption down to an efficient science. This was long before Netflix, back when binge-watching required serious devotion. Each day, I would walk down to the video store and rent a $2 VHS of two X-Files episodes. Then, at 9 p.m., I could watch another X-Files rerun on FX. That means I could squeeze three X-Files episodes into each 24-hour period. In my downtime, I read the unofficial X-Files guidebooks. It was a great summer.

Though I stopped watching the show as I got older (even 14-year-old me could clearly see when the show jumped the shark in season six), I remembered The X-Files as an excellent show. Agent Scully was a confident scientist. Agent Mulder was a dreamboat. I loved them both and thought they were the kind of odd couple that’s clearly made for each other. Then, last year, Fox announced that the original stars would be coming back to TV for an all new X-Files miniseries this January. I giddily started rewatching episodes.The X-Files is certainly a lot cheesier and low-budget than I remembered through the haze of nostalgia. But that’s not the biggest difference. Before finishing even one episode, I realized something even worse: Agent Mulder is not a dreamboat. In fact, he’s an asshole. An asshole who spends most of the series mansplaining to Agent Scully.

A lot of the fun of The X-Files, of course, comes from the sparky dynamic between Mulder and Scully. He’s a conspiracy theorist who instantly points to aliens, ghosts, or an errant chupacabra as the culprit for many of the crimes the pair investigate. Scully, meanwhile, is a forensic doctor whose criminal hypotheses stem from her extensive understanding of anatomy, chemistry, and biology. I’d always loved seeing the partners bounce contrasting ideas off each other. But watching the show as an adult who’s had two decades or so to reflect on everyday sexism, it’s suddenly obvious just how much bullshit Scully has to put up with. Not only does Mulder routinely dismiss her extremely practical ideas, but her knowledge often gets the side-eye from other men in the male-dominated world of law enforcement. In episode after episode, she has to defend her ideas to Mulder, her boss Agent Skinner, small-town cops, and a rotating cast of folks like the Lone Gunmen.

As a teen, I loved how Scully presented herself confidently and competently in the face of truly otherworldly chaos. She’s still a great character for that reason, but watching the show now, instead of rooting for Mulder and Scully as a duo, I find myself rooting for Scully alone. Twenty years after The X-Files debuted, it’s still rare to see a female character who’s as complicated and resilient as Scully — especially who works in science. Meanwhile, many of Mulder’s character traits that I once thought were endearing — his puppy dog attitude, his propensity toward throwing himself into the path of danger, his skepticism toward Scully’s ideas — now feel to me like standard egotistical behavior. As a teenager, I’d never met anyone like Mulder. Now, I’ve met many guys who act a lot like him — although their obsessions are usually not aliens, but Apple products, or politics, or “ethics in video game journalism.”

What stands out about The X-Files while watching it now, though, is how consistently Scully stands up for herself. There are a bunch of episodes where Scully’s no-bullshit attitude toward mansplaining shines. In season-three episode “Jose Chung’s ‘From Outer Space,’” Mulder runs around trying to prove that two upset teens were abducted by aliens while they were on a date. Scully calmly explains that it’s far more plausible that the two teenagers simply had sex and are struggling to deal with the emotional aftermath. This exchange between the agents is classic Scully:

SCULLY: We know that it wasn’t an alien who probed her. Mulder, you’ve got two kids having sex before they’re mature enough to know how to handle it.

MULDER: So you’re saying that all this is just a case of sexual trauma?

SCULLY: It’s a lot more plausible than an alien abduction.

That episode, like most episodes of The X-Files, ends in a gray area. Neither Mulder nor Scully’s ideas are completely vindicated, and it’s not clear to viewers whether the strange encounter was caused by sexual trauma, extraterrestrials, or shadowy government agents. Neither agent is wrong, but the script writers are careful to show neither is objectively right, either. Another fan-favorite Scully episode is season four’s “Never Again.” Gillian Anderson reportedly asked the show writers to put together a script specifically exploring Scully’s “dark side.” The result is this episode that begins with Scully asking Mulder why he has a desk — with a nameplate and all — while she doesn’t. Mulder says he always thought of a corner of the room as “her area” — an explanation Scully doesn’t buy. Then, Mulder heads out on vacation, telling Scully to follow up on a UFO sighting. She argues that it seems like a real waste of time, especially since the witness’s account of the incident sounds suspiciously like the plot of a Rocky & Bullwinkle episode.

MULDER: So you’re refusing an assignment based on the adventures of Moose and Squirrel?

SCULLY: “Refusing an assignment?” It makes it sound like you’re my superior.

MULDER: Do what you want. Don’t go to Philadelphia, but let me remind you that I worked my ass off to get the files reopened. You were just assigned. This work is my life.

SCULLY: And it’s become mine.

MULDER: You don’t want it to be.

SCULLY: This isn’t about you. Or maybe it is, indirectly. I don’t know. I feel like I’ve lost sight of myself, Mulder. It’s hard to see, let alone find in the darkness of covert locations. I mean, I wish I could say that we were going in circles, but we’re not. We’re going in an endless line — two steps forwards and three steps back. While my own life is… standing still.

With Mulder on vacation, Scully winds up going on a date with a man, who (of course) turns out to be driven mad by a tattoo laced with poison ink. Deadly shenanigans ensue and Scully lands in the hospital. When she returns to work, rather bruised, Mulder asks, “All this, because I’ve … because I didn’t get you a desk?” Scully doesn’t give into his guilt trip. The episode ends with the line, “Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life.” Television doesn’t get more direct than that.

The “Mulder is an asshole” trend isn’t just something that bugs me — a lot of fans feel the same way. This fall, I was on an X-Files panel at GeekGirlCon in Seattle with five other female fans. In front of a conference room full of several dozen serious X-Files devotees, I was a little nervous to voice my negative feelings about Mulder. But panelist and X-Files burlesque producer (yes, that’s a thing) Jo Jo Stiletto beat me to it. “Mulder is a real dick,” she said, to applause. That quickly became the theme of the panel: recounting the many ways that Mulder shuts down Scully, dismisses her intelligence, and generally belittles her during the series. Every fan had their own story of coming to realize that Mulder is a dick. Instead of reveling in the will-they-or-won’t-they romance between Mulder and Scully, as adults, we all agreed that Mulder feels a lot like a manipulative ex-boyfriend all women are better off without.

When the new miniseries airs this month on Fox, I’ll be watching. But while the show will always hold a special place in my heart, what will keep me tuned into the reboot isn’t Mulder and Scully. It’s Scully, holding her own. Mulder and his eye-rolling can go get permanently abducted for all I care.

Sarah Mirk is Bitch Media‘s online editor. She’s interested in gender, history, comics, and talking to strangers. You can follow her on Twitter.

1950s B-Movie Women Scientists: Smart, Strong, but Still Marriageable

While the happily ever after scenario in these 1950s B-movies comes with an expectation that women give up their careers in science to become wives and mothers once the appropriate suitor is identified, it seems there are women in B-movies who do have it all — they maintain the respect afforded to them as scientists and also win romantic partners, without having to sacrifice their professional interests to assume domestic roles instead.

This guest post written by Linda Levitt appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

A study published by the University of Denver in 2012 shows that less than one third of women completing degrees in STEM fields end up pursuing careers in the disciplines they studied. In fact, one in three women leaves the technology workforce within the first two years. Since the number of women pursuing and succeeding in careers as scientists remains quite small, it is surprising to find a particular characterization of women as scientists in 1950s science fiction B-movies. The abundance of female scientists in these films does not reflect the reality of women in the sciences at the time. We could argue that including female scientists enhances the moviegoing experience by creating “eye candy” for male audience members. If the moviegoer identifies with the heroic male lead, as film theorist Laura Mulvey and others would assume, then the film’s satisfying conclusion includes winning the heart of the “leading lady” and enabling the “happily ever after” for the heroic male scientist who saves civilization from deadly creatures, nuclear meltdown, or another apocalyptic scenario.

Science fiction routinely offers an alternative present or a possible future: some of these realities are promising, and some are apocalyptic. The possibility of gender equality in the workplace is not far-fetched for an alternative reality, especially in light of a long history of women working quietly in the background in the sciences. Thus another perspective would be to argue that the inclusion of female scientists in B-movies allowed young women in the audience to see the possibility for an intellectual career for themselves.

In the decades since these films first played in theaters and drive-ins, it has become relatively commonplace for women to have fulfilling careers, although gender equality remains a daunting challenge across all professions. The recent proliferation of discussions about “work-life balance” indicates this inequality: the need to find a balance between professional and personal lives is addressed almost exclusively to women. While the happily ever after scenario in these 1950s B-movies comes with an expectation that women give up their careers in science to become wives and mothers once the appropriate suitor is identified, it seems there are women in B-movies who do have it all — they maintain the respect afforded to them as scientists and also win romantic partners, without having to sacrifice their professional interests to assume domestic roles instead.

Women scientists featured in 1950s B-movies span a broad variety of expertise: paleontologist Lee Hunter in The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms (1953), Dr. Patricia Medford, an etymologist in Them! (1954), biologist Stephanie Clayton in Tarantula (1955), and three scientists — Joanna Merritt, Marna Roberts, and Madame Elzevir (truly, she was not afforded a first name), wife of the esteemed Dr. Pierre Elzevir — in Gog (1954). These women often have the answers to save civilization, or willingly brave deadly encounters with the unknown, but many of the depictions of female scientists also reify gender stereotypes about women, regardless of their intellectual prowess and independence.

The 1954 Cold War sci-fi thriller Gog offers several good examples. A feminist critique would address some of the blatantly sexist events, such as the research assistant who weeps hysterically when the scientist she works with dies suddenly, only to be slapped across the face by another male scientist who implores her to “get some men up here and restore order.” Just the same, three women scientists are at work in this underground laboratory where a space station is being built. One of the scientists, Joanna Merritt (Constance Dowling), is portrayed as serious, intellectual, and devoid of much emotion. She does, however, have a quick wit.

Merritt and Dr. Van Ness (Herbert Marshall), the lab supervisor, take security agent David Sheppard (Richard Egan) on a tour of the facility. They observe an experiment in weightlessness, where a man and woman are training for a zero-gravity environment in space. After watching them for awhile, Sheppard asks: “Why the girl?” Merritt replies: “We think women are better suited for space travel than men.” Lest she have the opportunity to make an argument favoring women over men, Van Ness quickly adds, “For one thing, they take up less space in a rocket.”

Sheppard objectifies the female astronaut in training, referring to her as “the girl” and questioning the appropriateness of her place in the space program. Then Van Ness adds that women are better because they are smaller, providing an idealized stereotype of the petite, fit woman. Nonetheless, there is still an opportunity for Merritt to offer what rhetorically sounds like a scientific truth: “We think women are better suited for space travel than men.” She has a strong and present personality, and the perspective she voices is not easily dismissed. Spoiler alert: There have already been hints that David Sheppard and Joanna Merritt are… well… romantically acquainted, and by film’s end, they appear destined for the happily ever after. Still, her position as a scientist of regard does not seem diminished. The presence of women in positions of intellectual power seems tacitly accepted here, in a filmic world where imagination is boundless.

Merritt has no internal conflict — she is not concerned about making choices about her life. Yet the taken-for-granted nature of female scientists in these films differs markedly from recent films: for characters like Dr. Ellie Sattler in Jurassic Park (1993) or Dr. Eleanor Alloway in Contact (1997), their choice of careers leads others to question their scientific authority and personal motivation.

Women’s studies scholar J. Kasi Jackson points out that “in addition to negotiating between detachment and empathy, the female scientist must balance professionalism with femininity.” The woman scientist is an outsider both in science, where her “feminine” empathy is not objective, and in society, where scientific rationality conflicts with assumed “feminine” traits. Jackson’s observations relate well to Lee Hunter (Paula Raymond), a paleontologist in the 1953 giant creature movie The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. Hunter is a social outcast: as a woman, she doesn’t comfortably fit in with her male colleagues, nor does she seem to connect with any other women. She is, in fact the only woman with any substance in the film, and no one doubts her place on the scene or the veracity of her research and observations. The other female characters are empty stereotypes: a nurse, a nun, a telephone operator, a screaming mother, and a bank of phone operators handling calls in the monster-created emergency. The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms fails the Bechdel Test, since it does not have: (1) at least two women in it, who (2) talk to each other, about (3) something other than a man.

Although it is unlikely that a 1950s science fiction B-movie would pass the Bechdel Test, it is employed here to draw attention to the strength of the female scientist in this film. Like Joanna Merritt, Lee Hunter is poised, confident, and smart. She is the assistant to Dr. Thurgood Elson (Cecil Kellaway), who is visited by a physicist named Thomas Nesbitt (Paul Hubschmid), who believes he has seen a dinosaur. No one takes Nesbitt very seriously, but Hunter does. She establishes both her scientific prowess and her compassion after Nesbitt leaves Elson’s laboratory. Of Nesbitt, she tells Elson, “When he first came to this country, I attended his lectures on the curative properties of radioactive isotopes. He’s a brilliant man. Isn’t his story in any way feasible?” Despite Elson’s refusal, Hunter decided to visit Nesbitt’s office to offer her support.

Nesbitt’s secretary informs him of Lee’s arrival: “There’s a Lee Hunter waiting for you. She’s very pretty.” In this moment, the narrative privileges Lee’s femininity and sexuality over her intellect. Yet when Nesbitt later asks why she would believe his claims, she says, “I have a deep abiding faith in the work of scientists. Otherwise I wouldn’t be one myself.” Hunter ties her identity to science, a theme which is repeated throughout the film.

Science fiction B-movies from the 1950s are rife with female characters who do not have the independence or determination of Joanna Merritt and Lee Hunter. Some female characters are primarily sexualized and seductive, where others are hyper-emotional and present themselves as weak and needy. Despite the depiction of some women scientists, these films still reflect the gendered reality of their time: the cultural framework in which these films are set is undeniably sexist. Teresa De Lauretis argued that female characters are made to conform to the ideal image that the male protagonist has for them. Regardless of their intellect or achievements, these characters are the object of the male gaze.

Writing in 1971, political scientist Jo Freeman argued that one of the core concepts of sexism is that “women are here for the pleasure and assistance of men.” Freeman goes on to say that:

“It is this attitude which stigmatizes those women who do not marry or who do not devote their primary energies to the care of men and their children. Association with a man is the basic criterion for participation by women in this society and one who does not seek her identity through a man is a threat to the social values.”

Identity formation is a complex process, and every person forms and performs their identity in the context of their interpersonal relationships. In other words, self-identity reflects, but is not dependent upon, the presence of others. Freeman’s claim, then, has validity, especially when viewed with contingency. For women scientists in the 1950s, “association with a man” was “the basic criterion for participation by women” in society: science has been and remains patriarchal. As previously noted, women tend to abandon or simply not pursue professional life in the sciences; the lack of a welcoming, balanced space for women is one reason. With this in mind, it is noteworthy that B-movie women scientists seem undaunted by the patriarchal cultures in which they choose to work.

Although men significantly outnumber women in the B-movies discussed here, women were frequently featured in significant scientific roles, battling aliens, mutant forces, or giant bugs. A survey of these films indicates a spectrum of reception in which female scientists may be welcome or othered, depending on their circumstances and relationships to men within the patriarchal culture of a scientific organization.

Linda Levitt’s research focuses on gender studies, media, and cultural memory. Her work is often situated at the intersection of these ideas.

In Praise of ‘Jurassic Park’s Dr. Ellie Sattler

Dr. Sattler is awesome. She’s a character who doesn’t fit into any typical Hollywood box: A friendly, stable, super-smart woman who wants to be a mother, has her own nerdy career, and doesn’t think twice about being a badass. … I saw ‘Jurassic Park’ when I was seven and from then on wanted to be Dr. Ellie Sattler.

This guest post by Sarah Mirk originally appeared at Bitch Media and appears here as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. Cross-posted with permission.

So I saw Jurassic Park 3-D last night. I know. It was $17. That’s ridiculous. But if there’s one movie from my childhood worth revisiting on the big, three-dimensional screen, it’s Jurassic Park. This was actually the very first movie I remember seeing on the big screen when I was a kid and I vividly remembered all the famous dino scenes — the dilophosaurus melting Newman’s face, the T-Rex eating the lawyer, the “clever girl.” But I had forgotten one major element of the film: Dr. Ellie Sattler is the best!

At first, it seems like Sattler (played by Laura Dern) is doomed to just be Dr. Alan Grant’s pretty sidekick. In the first scenes, out in the fossil fields of Montana, she hangs off Dr. Grant’s shoulders while he takes center stage, lecturing a snotty child on how a velociraptor would totally eat his intestines, given the chance. While she plays a somewhat traditionally feminine role — telling Dr. Grant he should love kids, being the object of the lounge-lizard-chaos-theorist Dr. Ian Malcolm’s lust — that all changes in one key moment: The shit-digging scene. You remember it.

That’s the point where it clicked for me, rewatching the film. Oh yeah. Dr. Sattler is awesome. She’s a character who doesn’t fit into any typical Hollywood box: A friendly, stable, super-smart woman who wants to be a mother, has her own nerdy career, and doesn’t think twice about being a badass. Instead of Tomb Raider gear, she rocks the practical khaki shorts and hiking boots. As Dr. Sattler stripped off her Triceratops shit-covered gloves — much to Dr. Ian Malcolm’s horror — I remembered being a kid at the drive-in theater, watching Jurassic Park from the backseat of my parent’s Volkswagen Rabbit and thinking, “Yes! That’s me!”

In the film, Dr. Sattler makes her own plans and rules. When everyone else heads back to the visitor’s center as planned, she sticks out in the field to keep investigating a sick triceratops. When the park’s power fails to come back on as expected, she doesn’t sit in the emergency bunker waiting for rescue. She makes a plan and grabs a walkie-talkie, heading out to find the power switch.

“I should really be the one going,” mutters park owner John Hammond before she sprints off.

“Why?” says Dr. Sattler.

“Well, because you’re a… and I’m a…” stutters Hamond.

“Look,” she says, “We can discuss ‘sexism in survival situations’ when I get back.”

All that, and she can ID cretaceous-period plant life from 100 yards. What a star.

I saw Jurassic Park when I was seven and from then on wanted to be Dr. Ellie Sattler. As a teenager, I actually went to archaeology science camp, spending summers hunched over a dental pick in the middle of the desert, digging up Tertiary Era mammal teeth. After a couple months of that tedious work, I determined that a life like Dr. Sattler’s isn’t for me. But along the way developed a life-long love for science. And practical khaki shorts. Thanks, Jurassic Park.

Sarah Mirk is Bitch Media‘s online editor. She’s interested in gender, history, comics, and talking to strangers. You can follow her on Twitter.

Mary and Susan on ‘Johnny Test’

While the show as a whole was run-of-the-mill, it quietly had two of the most brilliantly realized female characters in recent cartoon history: Mary and Susan Test. …Mary and Susan Test are ambitious, intelligent, and fully-actualized. Exaggeratedly brilliant scientists, it’s the twin girls who put into motion most events of the series.

This guest post written by Robert V. Aldrich appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

No one’s going to blame you if you haven’t heard of Johnny Test.

It was a quiet little show that ran from 2005 to 2014, first on The CW (Kids’ WB at the time) and thereafter on Cartoon Network. There wasn’t a whole lot to it as a show, to be honest. It was pretty casual fare about a boy and his talking dog, with simple art and generic animation. The voice acting was pretty decent but nothing to write home about. Each episode was usually a very simple concept (often revolving around school, chores, and similar mundane events) that got milked for all it was worth. The series’ episodes had a few decent jokes to make you smirk, a lot of lowest-common-denominator giggles, and one or two gags that went over the kids’ heads that only mom or dad got. It was a perfectly decent show, perhaps even good at times, but never anything particularly stellar.

In another time and place, Johnny Test might have been a bigger deal, but like its ancestors from the late-80s, the series suffered from being an adequate cartoon just after a major epoch of great cartoons (with the 2008 conclusion of Avatar: The Last Airbender and the cancellation of Toonami) as well as being overshadowed by a few stellar standouts (like Ben 10 and Transformers: Animated). As such, only its very core target audience even knew it existed. Which is a shame because while the show as a whole was run-of-the-mill, it quietly had two of the most brilliantly realized female characters in recent cartoon history: Mary and Susan Test.

While the TV series Johnny Test was very clearly aimed right at the ‘boy’ demographic, with the titular character and his talking dog Dukey (…shudder…) being the centerpiece of most episodes, the two pivotal characters were Johnny’s older twin sisters. Whereas Johnny was an average, no-brand kid who was equal parts jock, geek, and lay-about (IE your generic all-American pre-tween), Mary and Susan Test are ambitious, intelligent, and fully-actualized. Exaggeratedly brilliant scientists, it’s the twin girls who put into motion most events of the series. The two red-haired teen girls are constantly working on scientific experiments that push the boundaries of human comprehension, ability, and rend the very laws of nature. Basically, think Dexter from Dexter’s Lab, only with actual manners, social graces, and no bizarre accent.

Mary, the eldest of the twins and visualized with curly hair and baggy pants, is an open-minded sort of scientist, willing to engage with most any theory. She’s slightly more out-going of the two girls and focuses mostly on their collective work. She seems to be the more mature of the two and the most well-adjusted of the three Test children.

Susan is Mary’s counterpart (if differences that subtle can be called such). The younger of the two, Susan has straight hair and typically wears a skirt. She’s a little more hard-nosed when it comes to science and interpretation, and is a little more curt. She evidences a quicker temper than her sister, and has also garnered the attention of an unwanted paramour in the form of Eugene ‘Bling-Bling Boy’ Hamilton.

Both Mary and Susan are brilliant scientists, whose work is courted by the U.S. government (who seem synonymous with the military, though they’re frequently played for comic relief) and other institutions, even while they attend school at Porkbelly Technical Institute (which seems to be a generic higher-ed establishment and made unclear if it’s a high school or a college).

Mary and Susan are not the first female science wonks in cartoon history. Prior to them, cartoon-watchers had Gadget Hackwrench from Rescue Rangers and Sandy Cheeks on Spongebob Squarepants (yep, technically the squirrel in a diving suit is a scientist). Go back any farther and you could debatably include Penny from Inspector Gadget, but at about that point, the already paltry list begins to thin out completely. Sure, some shows had the occasional one-off or even recurring character as a female scientist (Transformers had Carly, Spike’s girlfriend who seemed a little too enamored with the alien robots), but by and large, the media was woefully lacking in such representation. This necessitated audiences look to live-action entertainment for any semblance of female characters into science, math, and the like. But live-action stuff’s like, for adults and who wants to watch that?

Even more remarkable is that while female science characters are in short supply, in even shorter supply – so much so as to border on unheard of – are female scientists who are still GIRLS. In the annals of cartoon history, one would be hard-pressed to find any other characters so prominent and also so well-rounded. While Mary and Susan’s cartoon predecessors were often more scientist than girl, the Test Twins are still very much regular teen girls. They like to get gussied up in dresses, go to the pool, and go dancing. They like makeup and many of the usual trappings associated with femininity. They just also really, really love science.

This is best evidenced by both girls having an unrequited interest in Gil Nexdor (get it?), the hunky airhead that lives down the street. Both girls pine for Gil’s easily-distracted attention, but are exceptionally clueless as to how to achieve it or hold it. For most of the show, Gil seems largely oblivious to the Test Twins’ very existence, an interesting reversal on the usual trope. It’s doubly interesting because of how it is similar to Susan’s struggles with Bling-Bling Boy and his constant, unwanted (and at times, toxic) attention.

Most every episode of Johnny Test involves the girls and their intelligence. Either an invention of theirs kicks off the episode’s action, or one is needed to save the day. Episodes vary from the run-of-the-mill charm-of-life episodes involving the usual kids’ matters (lazy afternoon, not wanting to do homework, sibling rivalry, etc.) to hyper-exaggerated inanity (alien invasions, feuds with other super-geniuses). Mary and Susan sometimes struggle with one another, as sisters are wont to do, but always end up reconciling. Likewise, their attitudes towards Johnny vary from episode to episode, depending on how much trouble he’s getting them into or how much they want him to test a new invention, but they always drop everything to help him.

The Test Twins really are quite remarkable as characters. As progressive as cartoons can be, there remains a colossal dearth of science-minded female characters, especially ones who embrace femininity. Were we to guess based off the likes of their peers and predecessors like Penny or Gadget, we might get the impression that once a woman puts on a lab coat or a stethoscope, she ceases to be a woman or a girl. Once she commits to STEM interests, she quits being interested in dresses, dances, or swooning after crushes. Mary and Susan Test challenge this quietly but directly.

For girls tuning in to watch this show, they found two prominent and visible characters who appear in nearly every single episode and always contribute meaningfully, if not outright save the day. Moreover, they do it not with beauty or social graces or even physical might, but with their intellect. These girls are the force in the show because of their smarts. Name any other cartoon with any other female character (much less two!) that can say the same. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.

Moreover, these two girls are not the centerpieces of the show. While they’re certainly not supporting characters, they’re not quite tritagonists with Johnny either. Mary and Susan occupy some unique territory where, depending on the episode, they find themselves as anything from partner-in-crime to background character to even deus ex machina. At first glance, this might seem a bit to undermine their importance, but consider instead that the target audience of this show is likely to be boys (because heaven forbid a show appeal to both, but that’s a discussion for another matter). By having these two super-science girls in the background of the show helps normalize the notion of girls who are smart, ambitious and love science. If this show were a little boy’s favorite TV show, it would be very likely that he would be completely accepting of girls at school being into biology, math, and the like. After all, why wouldn’t they be?

The world of entertainment has not been kind to women and girls who are interested in science, technology, engineering, and math. Often these characters are written quickly out of shows, turned into one-off joke characters, or relegated to quiet support. When they are featured in any way, they are nerdy outcasts who are scientists not just first, but almost exclusively. If a female character is into STEM matters, it’s as if they must sacrifice their femininity.

Mary and Susan casually dismiss all of that as the garbage that it is. They’re girls, fully realized and healthy in every way, who love science and lose themselves in their pursuits. No struggle exists to reconcile their intellects with their lives as girls. They are the perfect role-models of the aspiring scientist who also wants to wear cute clothes and go to the prom. On a show that otherwise was solid but quite forgettable, these girls stood out as contributing wonderfully to the tapestry of rich female characters cartoons have offered.

Not too bad for a cartoon with a talking dog named Dukey.

Robert V. Aldrich is a writer and novelist, living in Raleigh, North Carolina (and plans to vote against Pat McCrory as soon as November gets here). He’s the author of numerous books including Samifel and Rhest for the Wicked, as well as a contributing writer for multiple websites. You can find more of his work at TeachTheSky.com and he can be found on Facebook and Twitter. When not writing B-rate sci-fi or smarty-pants evaluations of kids’ shows, he is working for the health department, teaching martial arts, or losing arguments to his cats.

‘Contact’: The Power of Feminist Representation

‘Contact’ remains a singularly astute portrayal of a woman combating the oppressive confines of institutional sexism, as well as a reminder of how deeply mainstream cinema still needs progressive feminist portrayals that contradict gender clichés. … How refreshing that a woman’s personal arc is considered important enough to be entwined alongside the movie’s core theme of discovering meaning in our seemingly meaningless universe.

This guest post written by Kelcie Mattson appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

For half my life I planned to be an astrophysicist.

You can credit the mental implantation of that idea to the 1997 film Contact. I was eight years old, and recognition clicked when I saw Eleanor “Ellie” Arroway. Her love for space exploration coalesced with my own in a way I hadn’t known was possible, and I thought, clear as a pinpoint — I want to be that.

Ultimately, that passion translated into writing stories about science rather than living them myself, so I’m not a successful case study. But Contact remains a singularly astute portrayal of a woman combating the oppressive confines of institutional sexism, as well as a reminder of how deeply mainstream cinema still needs progressive feminist portrayals that contradict gender clichés.

Based on the novel by the late astrophysicist Carl Sagan, Contact follows Dr. Ellie Arroway (Jodie Foster), a leading member of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) program, as she strives to prove the existence of alien life. After she discovers a radio signal transmitting from a seemingly uninhabited star system, the governments of the world unite with NASA to decode what the mystery alien message means for the future of humanity.

Contact makes waves just by existing. Although the science fiction genre is peppered with extraordinary portrayals of pioneering women, it’s rare for them to actively serve as the protagonists of any major motion picture, let alone a multi-million dollar sci-fi blockbuster. Instead of maximizing the endless possibilities inherent in the genre to their fullest potential by liberating and diversifying, the majority of women take a narrative backseat to a revolving door series of leading white men. They’re lucky to do something other than fulfill the tired role of token love interest. Dr. Martha Lauzen’s “Celluloid Ceiling” report for 2015 confirms this: women comprised only 22% of movie protagonists in the top 100 highest grossing films of last year.

Contact breaks down common cinema barriers by not only featuring a complex, layered female protagonist, but a brilliantly capable, talented female scientist — a concept still lacking adequate female personification and normalization within modern narratives.

As a woman in a male-dominated profession, Ellie Arroway endures a belligerent stream of ingrained sexism. She is overruled, questioned, ignored, and derided by the men surrounding her, particularly by David Drumlin (Tom Skerritt), the Scientific Advisor to the President and quasi-antagonist. He removes the funding from Ellie’s SETI research site in Puerto Rico and threatens to do the same four years later at an observatory in New Mexico because he’s convinced the effort is a waste of resources — NASA’s and Ellie’s. Not only is “looking for E.T.” a laughable venture, he argues Ellie’s squandering her talents in the department and won’t accomplish anything of note with her career. If she’s going to be a scientist, she should at least be the kind he approves of. It’s an example of paternalistic control masquerading as concern that Ellie is quick to challenge.

During a White House press briefing about the contents of the alien message, Ellie is scheduled to speak but government officials pass her over without warning in favor of Drumlin — despite the fact Ellie leads the project responsible for discovering the extraterrestrial communique. He even surpasses her by committee vote (and exploitative manipulation) to become humanity’s ambassador to the alien race, again in spite of Ellie’s enormous qualifications.

There’s also Ellie’s on/off again love interest Palmer Joss (Matthew McConaughey), a religious philosopher who condemns her on national television for her lack of belief in a Christian God. Most damning of all, when Ellie can provide no proof of her successful meeting with the alien race, National Security Advisor Michael Kitz (James Woods) interrogates her to the point of gaslighting. She’s a delusional, hysterical woman; how can they believe a word she says? How can she believe herself?

While the pushback against Ellie’s stalwart belief in extraterrestrial life isn’t necessarily gender specific (think the mockery Fox Mulder faces in The X-Files for a male equivalent), Ellie is still infantilized and dismissed in a frighteningly recognizable way. Drumlin, Kitz, and Joss make decisions “for” her, without her, and against her, even going so far as to steal credit for her work to amplify their professional status. Despite her contributions (she discovers alien life, people), she’s summarily overlooked without question or hesitation. There are no explicit declarations of hatred, belief in female inferiority, or use of gendered slurs — just a reactionary, bone-deep confidence in their own authority as men. It’s a quieter, more insidious form of misogyny permeating all sections of society.

Because of this constant litany of sabotage, Ellie is forced to move through the world by working around the biased structural institutions. The only way Ellie can overcome those limitations, however, is through the aid of men. Reclusive billionaire S. R. Hadden (John Hurt) funds not only Ellie’s research after all other prominent institutions have rejected her, but reveals the existence of a backup spacecraft after the first is destroyed by a suicide bomber. Interestingly, Ellie is both active instigator and passive reactor in these scenarios — Hadden provides financial backing because she implores it from his company, and he’s impressed by her fiery determination. The revelation of the secondary spacecraft, though, as well as a clue that solves the coded alien message, come from Hadden’s goodwill, not an intellectual triumph of Ellie’s. Without Hadden’s money and influence, Ellie would be helpless to progress. One can even argue the suicide bomber (Jake Busey), a disgusting, religious radical responsible for innocent deaths, makes Ellie’s journey in the machine possible by causing Drumlin’s death in the explosion.

It doesn’t matter how unquestionably skilled Ellie is or how vocally she protests — her talents aren’t enough to break past the systematic barriers imposed by powerful men and the society that implicitly favors them. Her avenue for advancement isn’t dismantling the system, but sneaking through the cracks. Aliens exist; equality does not.

It’s a disappointing view of the STEM field, but not an inaccurate one. Case studies have found many women face hostility, harassment, and sexual assault from male colleagues. The script’s co-writer, Ann Druyan, experienced “huge amounts of sexism” during her career with NASA:

“I remember routinely being dismissed, interrupted — I’d say something and people at a meeting would turn to Carl [Sagan] or someone else and say, that was a really great idea you had.”

Although Ellie’s experiences occur within the framework of a semi-fantastical context, the messy convergence of religion, science, and gender serves as a reflection of the oppressive situations real women experience. She is no fainting damsel weakened by conflict, but a symbol of female resistance, her personhood achieved in non-traditional ways that challenge the status quo of masculine privilege and assumed gender divisions. She pursues her chosen scientific track to the disapproval of her colleagues. She raises her voice. She’s compassionate and filled with ideological wanderlust, as well as career-driven, aggressive, and angry. She’s lonely but rejects romance in favor of a one-night stand without considering it a sacrifice to the altar of her career, and when she does choose a relationship, it’s not a corrective act that fulfills her life. She’s an independent, sexual being who fits within the heteronormative standards of female beauty without being sexualized, yet can still wear a “really great dress” to a party. Ellie’s absolute disregard for prescribed stereotypical characteristics coded as “male” and “female” frees her to be a whole, multi-layered character in pursuit of her own kind of individuality.

Ellie even breaks the known limitations of the universe. From a narrative standpoint, she grapples with the biggest philosophical questions plaguing our existence: are we alone? What’s our purpose? Her desperation to make first contact mirrors a psychological need to cure her loneliness, an echo of the themes seen in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Interstellar, and more. How refreshing that a woman’s personal arc is considered important enough to be entwined alongside the movie’s core theme of discovering meaning in our seemingly meaningless universe.

The fact there are no other on-screen female scientists seems a deliberate choice to further highlight Ellie’s isolation, but it’s still an unfortunate oversight by the writers. (Ellie’s mother in particular is a presence sorely lacking; she’s barely mentioned except to note she passed away during childbirth.) Given that Ellie is only one of two women with an on-screen speaking part, all of her major interactions are with men. If Drumlin and his ilk represent the sexist hegemony, the handful who support her can be classified as male allies. This is especially true of Ellie’s father, who fully encouraged his daughter’s interest in astronomy and helped advance her curiosity, rather than shut it down in its infancy as something inappropriate for a young girl. Ellie and her fellow SETI scientist Kent Clark (William Fichtner), who is blind, share a passion for their study as well being overlooked minorities. By the film’s end, even Palmer Joss overcomes his biases to accept Ellie’s differences and proclaim his belief in her story to the world; he doesn’t speak for her, but uses his influence to support her voice.

It’s worth mentioning the alien emissary that Ellie meets assumes the form of her father in order to “comfort” her. It’s a pretty blatant example of the daddy issues cliché, and compounds the realization that in addition to another species, Ellie spent her entire life searching for a paternalistic replacement (she sleeps with Joss after he unintentionally quotes Ellie’s father, a move that’s way too Oedipal for me). Although the reliance on a lost-father trope in order to give Ellie depth is irritating, it doesn’t undermine her progression or strengths as a character. Her interests weren’t defined by her father, and neither is she diminished or restricted by her grief over his loss. She’s allowed to weep at the sight of “him,” even if the alien’s attitude is infantilizing.

Ultimately, Ellie triumphs over the sociopolitical forces conspiring against her. The secure knowledge of Ellie’s own truth is what matters more than the government’s approval, and thousands of strangers stand in solidarity of belief with her. She achieves her goal of advancing scientific understanding by initiating first contact, as well as finding personal peace, without compromising her autonomy or personality. Radios, telescopes, space, math, physics — these passions were born entirely from herself, and they flourished because of her drive. There’s no question of how or why or she’s an exception. Ellie just is. She’s passionate, level-headed, exacting, devoted, optimistic, courageous, unapologetic, and full of glorious wonder.

That’s what girls need to see: the normalization of women as protagonists, as professionals, as figureheads of heroism. Viable, easily seen examples that women belong in the worlds of science and technology, that the fields aren’t exclusive boys’ clubs. A woman can achieve breakthroughs in math and physics. A woman can raise her voice and fight for her beliefs. A woman can serve as representative for the best of humanity.

More than anything, she can succeed in the face of overwhelming societal pressures trying to undermine her choices — just like social norms dictate what young women can and can’t do. Pink is for girls, blue is for boys; you play with dolls, not trucks. It’s impractical to be a scientist, or an engineer, or a radio astronomer.

Contact shows women can be protagonists, women can be scientific geniuses, and women can inspire. It compounds the deep-seated necessity for identification through representation, if nothing else than through my own experience as a young girl looking for confirmation that I wasn’t abnormal at the same time I was looking up at the stars.

If Ellie Arroway can do those things, so can we.

Kelcie Mattson is a multimedia editor by morning, aspiring critic by afternoon, and tea aficionado 24/7. She’s been a fangirl since birth, thanks to reruns of Star Trek and Buffy. In her spare time she does the blogging thing on feminism, genre films, minority representation, comics, and all things cinephile-y at her website. You can follow her on Twitter at @kelciemattson, where she’s usually overanalyzing HGTV’s camerawork and sharing too many cat pictures.

Beverly Crusher (‘Star Trek: TNG’) and Dana Scully (‘The X-Files’): The Medical and the Maternal

The impact of Dr. Beverly Crusher and Agent Dana Scully cannot be understated, not just on the landscape of female representation on television or the portrayal of women scientists but the way they also drove young women to pursue STEM fields in reality. …They transcend mere descriptors like woman, lover, mother, caregiver, skeptic, scientist — because they’re all that and more.

This guest post written by Carly Lane appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. | Spoilers ahead.

In the vast, diverse spectrum of science fiction worlds, it often seems as if no role, no profession, is off-limits to female characters. To that end, it has often been cited as a deeply progressive genre for fictional women, depicting the importance of their contributions as being equal to their male counterparts. When compared alongside the investigation of extraterrestrial life or the exploration of worlds other than our own, a strong and competent woman doesn’t seem that extraordinary by comparison.

Although science-fiction has been guilty of relying on outdated sexist tropes on occasion, it should be celebrated for the avenues where female characters are allowed to become more developed and three-dimensional. It’s these women that we often look up to as role models, even though they sometimes come from a future very far away from our own. Two of those characters appeared on television shows which spanned nearly fifteen years — Dr. Beverly Crusher, from Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Dana Scully, from The X-Files. Maybe not surprisingly, there’s more that links these two fictional ladies than the fact that they share the same hair color, or that they both have backgrounds in STEM fields. Over the course of their respective programs, they were allowed to become fully realized characters who had journeys independent of any influence from men — and though both women do have important relationships with several men in their lives, it isn’t what defines them.

When we’re introduced to Dr. Beverly Crusher (Gates McFadden) at the start of The Next Generation we learn two things up front: first, that she’s a single mother to young son Wesley (Wil Wheaton), and second, that she has a personal history with Jean-Luc Picard (Patrick Stewart), who captains the Starfleet vessel the USS Enterprise. In spite of the tie that binds them, which is revealed to be the death of Crusher’s husband Jack, the doctor assures Picard that it will in no way affect “the way [she] serves [him], the vessel or the mission” as Chief Medical Officer (“Encounter at Farpoint”).

And, for the most part, it doesn’t — at least not early on. In fact, it seems like she’s barely joined on with the Enterprise before she accepts a position as head of Starfleet Medical less than a year later. Granted, the decision of the character was heavily informed by the departure of actress Gates McFadden at the end of season one; both McFadden and Crusher returned to the show for season three after fans campaigned to bring the character back. While the reason for Crusher’s return is never provided in dialogue, we see the toll her absence has taken — especially in her relationship with her son Wesley, who had remained on the Enterprise as acting ensign. The interactions between them are initially strained and awkward, and eventually Crusher goes to Picard to ask him about how her son has been during her time away (“Evolution”).

Mother and son don’t resolve their tension right off the bat, either; when Crusher suggests to Wesley that he might have taken on too many responsibilities, he snaps at her, invoking her absence. “I’m here now, Wesley,” she says, and over the course of the remaining episode Wesley allows himself to rely a little more on his mother for a change. It’s one of the few instances in TNG where Wesley does lean on Crusher in some way; more often than not, when it comes to asking for advice or venting his problems, we usually see Wesley seek out a male member of Starfleet, or even Guinan (Whoopi Goldberg), the proprietor of Enterprise’s bar Ten-Forward. Whether that was unintentional or stemming from the belief that an adolescent man shouldn’t be running to his mother with his problems, it definitely contributed to a number of missed opportunities for more meaningful interaction between Crusher and her son.

On the other hand, TNG doesn’t define Crusher solely by her role as a mother — and it shouldn’t. As Chief Medical Officer on the Enterprise, she’s the head of the team responsible for administering care not just to the other vessel’s crew members but also to the alien races they encounter over the course of their mission. Her background in science and medicine requires her to be familiar with unique anatomy, to develop cures for foreign illnesses, or to handle emergency medical situations with a calm demeanor. As a certified bridge officer, she is afforded command of the bridge on several occasions in the absence of other crew members. She has her own friendships forged outside professional boundaries, namely with ship’s counselor Deanna Troi (Marina Sirtis); the two women frequently go to each other for advice and recommendations. She also finds herself pursuing potential romantic attachments, though they don’t tend to last beyond the confines of an episode. And she even dances around a potential relationship with Picard, even though neither of them truly act on what appear to be mutual romantic feelings. Over the course of TNG, we’re afforded the opportunity to glimpse Crusher as a mother, a doctor, and a woman with feelings and strong convictions.

While Crusher’s journey begins as that of a mother and branches outward, the story arc of Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) is something of the opposite. In The X-Files, it’s the skeptical Scully who serves as an avatar for the audience, our way in; it’s through her science that the FBI intends for her to debunk the X-Files and thereby discredit former golden boy Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) as a result. She’s immediately defined by her science, by her medical background; the frequency of Scully introducing herself by her profession in early seasons is a long-running joke among die-hard X-Philes, but there’s some part of it that’s almost necessary due to the occasional sexism she faces from men working in her field. When a male detective questions “the wisdom of assigning female law enforcement officers to certain types of cases” during a murder investigation, Scully assures him that his “concern” is misplaced (“2Shy”). Fortunately, she doesn’t find herself on the receiving end of any gross comments from her partner Mulder; although the two of them usually disagree on the whodunit, their verbal sparring matches are often a means to allow both parties to bounce potential hypotheses off one another.

It takes some time, but inevitably we learn that Scully occasionally harbors thoughts of having a social life, building relationships, and perhaps even starting a family someday outside of her work on the X-Files. Her attempts at dating never quite end the way she expects (“The Jersey Devil,” “Never Again”). Her alien abduction comes with its own set of side ramifications after Mulder learns that some of her eggs had been harvested during the process, eventually leading to the creation of a child (“Emily”). Scully experiences an overwhelming sense of connection with the girl and is heartbroken when Emily dies from a genetic infection, especially since this comes in the aftermath of Scully learning of her own infertility as the result of her abduction — or so she thinks.

Scully’s desire to be a mother again never truly goes away, and when she eventually decides to have a child through in vitro fertilization she asks Mulder to be the donor (“Per Manum”); although the initial attempt at in vitro fails, Scully later learns she is pregnant shortly after the alien abduction of Mulder, suggesting that the two were intimate long enough to conceive naturally (“Requiem”). While she is overjoyed to finally have a child of her own, Scully soon realizes that she and her son William will never find peace given the threats to his life that exist in her world, and makes the devastating decision to give him up for adoption so that he can grow up safely. In the revival of The X-Files, we learn that Scully frequently reminisces about the life she could have had with William if he had stayed with her, but the question of whether she will ever be able to reunite with her child even after all this time is still open-ended.

After all, as often as we’ve seen Scully try to leave the X-Files (and Mulder, by extension) behind and start anew, something always seems to occur to bring her back in somehow. And there’s value in that, in depicting a female character who wrestles with her convictions both as a woman of science and a woman of faith, in allowing her to explore her own wants and needs while not necessarily prioritizing that of her male partner’s. On The X-FIles, it never felt as though Mulder and Scully were on anything but equal footing; in his absence, she’s given the opportunity to fully champion the truth she had originally been assigned to dismiss.

The impact of Crusher and Scully cannot be understated, not just on the landscape of female representation on television or the portrayal of women scientists but the way they also drove young women to pursue STEM fields in reality. (Scully even has this effect partly named after her.) Maybe it’s because they’re impossible to sum up in just one word; they transcend mere descriptors like woman, lover, mother, caregiver, skeptic, scientist — because they’re all that and more. It’s the full representation of the many facets of their character that’s given these fictional women their long-lasting appeal for so many years already, and hopefully for many more years to come.

Carly Lane is a writer based in New York City who specializes in obscure pop culture references and miscellaneous geekery. Her work has been featured on The Mary Sue, Teen Vogue, The Toast and more. You can find her on Twitter at @carlylane.

‘Splice’: The Horror of Having It All

…’Splice’ could very well be a cautionary tale for the career woman considering motherhood. From the outset, the film shows Elsa as an ambitious scientist who loves her job – and who loves her life exactly the way it is. … This presents the central conflict of Elsa’s character: her repressed desire to be a mother, and her larger desire to remain in control of her own life, body, and career.

This guest post written by Claire Holland appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape]

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

That’s the question Clive (Adrien Brody), a genetic engineer, poses to his partner in both work and life, Elsa (Sarah Polley), regarding the possibility of having a child together. The rest of Splice goes on to answer that question, and the perspective is not an optimistic one.

While sporadically debating the pros and cons of making a baby the old-fashioned way, the two scientists create a creature, eventually named “Dren,” by splicing genetic material from different animals – including human genes from Elsa, who becomes a de facto mother. Splice explores a number of fraught topics, including the politics of male-female relationships, the nature of motherhood, and the ethics of genetic engineering and abortion. One of the less explored topics, however, is what the film says about the working mother, specifically. While the waters are a bit murky on the subject, look at it in the right light and Splice could very well be a cautionary tale for the career woman considering motherhood.

From the outset, the film shows Elsa as an ambitious scientist who loves her job – and who loves her life exactly the way it is. Her boyfriend Clive is the one who wants to change things, gently but insistently prodding Elsa about altering their lives to make room for a baby. Elsa makes it clear that she’s not interested in doing so, stating, “I don’t want to bend my life to suit some third party that doesn’t even exist yet.” She also suggests they wait until they “crack male pregnancy,” suggesting that she may never be interested, for a variety of reasons. However, Clive continues to pester Elsa to change her mind. It’s apparent that Clive represents the good, “normal” man who wants expected things like a nuclear family, blissfully unaware of the lasting effects a child would have on his female partner’s body and career. Elsa represents the abnormal, and implicitly wrong, approach to living as a woman: putting herself before her womb.

Elsa takes the ultimate gamble when she inserts her own genetic material into the amalgam that is Dren. This presents the central conflict of Elsa’s character: her repressed desire to be a mother, and her larger desire to remain in control of her own life, body, and career. Splice goes on to suggest that these two desires are inherently incompatible, and further, that attempting to “have it all” is a punishable offense.

When it comes to pseudo-motherhood, Elsa can’t do anything right, at least in Clive’s opinion. At the beginning, he reprimands her for treating Dren “like a pet” rather than a specimen. Clive’s fear illustrates how stereotypically female attributes, such as the ability to nurture, are considered weaknesses in a male-dominated profession like science, and the working world in general. Elsa sees potential in Dren that reaches far beyond the original goals of the experiment, but the film only presents this new facet of her character as a negative. It makes Elsa emotional, and therefore a danger to the sterile work world she inhabits.

As Dren (Delphine Chanéac) matures and becomes more volatile, she grows closer to Clive, who she begins to see as a potential mate (and, disturbingly, vice versa), and becomes resentful of Elsa’s restrictive presence. Clive remains critical of Elsa’s reactions to parenthood as she begins to shift from doting mother to controlling mother, suddenly finding her not maternal enough for his liking. Although we discover that Elsa has deep-seated issues with her own mother that hinder her ability to parent effectively, we also see that as the only parental figure left in the equation, she is obliged to become more and more domineering in order to keep their unauthorized experiment under wraps.

It’s at this point that Elsa becomes fundamentally unable to reconcile her roles as mother and scientist. Faced with a wild, fully grown Dren who doesn’t want to be told what to do, Elsa reestablishes control the only way she knows how: by force. She knocks Dren unconscious, ties her down, and surgically removes the stinger she has on her tail. Elsa then uses the stinger to synthesize the protein her team has been attempting to make all along. It is her greatest accomplishment, and also her coldest, most calculating moment, divorcing her entirely from the mother figure she once represented to Dren. It seems that in order to find success in her job, Elsa has to renounce her maternal side completely.

In the final act of Splice, Dren transitions from female to male (the final part of her life cycle, foreshadowed earlier in the film). Dren then rapes Elsa, for reasons left unexplained. Perhaps it’s simply Dren’s animal instinct, but it comes across as punishment; punishment for being too ambitious in realms not traditionally female (Elsa’s career, science), or punishment for not finding fulfillment in the roles women are “supposed” to find fulfillment (motherhood and wifedom). No matter how you splice it, the film does not treat Elsa’s non-conformance with much kindness or sympathy, and for better or worse it reads as a blaring warning sign to women like her: attempting to “have it all” can be deadly.

See also at Bitch Flicks: ‘Splice’: Womb Horror and the Mother Scientist

Claire Holland is a freelance writer and author of Razor Apple, a blog devoted to horror movies and horror culture with a feminist bent. Claire has a BA in English and creative writing, but she insists on writing about “trashy” genre movies nonetheless. You can follow her on Twitter @ClaireCWrites.

When Will Black Women Play Leading Scientists More Often?

In movies and on television, the absence of Black women as scientists is glaringly obvious. …The response on social media to the vocation of Leslie Jones’ character in ‘Ghostbusters’ offers an opportunity to ponder: When have Black women been cast as scientists in laboratories, creating and inventing significant and outlandish developments, and leading investigations? …Where are the Black women playing scientists in films in the 21st century?

This guest post written by Tara Betts appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

In movies and on television, the absence of Black women as scientists is glaringly obvious. This became more obvious when the 2016 Ghostbusters reboot caused an outcry around Leslie Jones — the only Black Ghostbuster — being cast as a municipal worker, rather than a scientist like her white women costars. Even though Jones’ occupation is identical to Ernie Hudson’s role as Winston in the 1984 original, the response on social media to the vocation of Jones’ character offers an opportunity to ponder: When have Black women been cast as scientists in laboratories, creating and inventing significant and outlandish developments, and leading investigations? Black women have been stereotypically cast as servants and sex workers in too many films to name here, but we should be asking: Where are the Black women playing scientists in films in the 21^st century?

Some of the smaller, less central scientist roles played by Black actresses include Kerry Washington as Medical Officer Marissa Brau in 30,000 Leagues Under the Sea (2007), Alfre Woodard as Lily Sloane as Zefram Cochrane’s (played by James Cromwell) assistant in Star Trek: First Contact (1996), N’Bushe Wright as hematologist Dr. Karen Jenson in Blade (1998), and Dr. Billie Worth (Rosalind Cash) seeking the cure to cirrhosis with Dr. Henry Pride (Bernie Casey) in Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde, the 1976 blaxploitation version of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Most recently, Viola Davis seems to have cornered the most roles as a Black female scientist. Davis played Dr. Helen Gordon in Solaris (2002) and as Major Gwen Anderson, a psychologist in Enders Game (2013). Davis also plays Amanda Waller in the recently completed Suicide Squad movie. Angela Bassett portrayed the same role in Green Lantern (2011) but this version of the character was a scientist, rather than a government official.

The upcoming 2017 Hidden Figures (starring Taraji P. Henson, Janelle Monáe, Octavia Spencer), Sanaa Lathan in the 2004 film AVP: Alien vs. Predator, and Janet Jackson in the 2000 comedy The Nutty Professor II: The Klumps approach representations of Black women as scientists in ways that have yet to be replicated more often. But there is also room for more believable portrayals across STEM-related disciplines. These roles are some of the only leading roles where Black women scientists received top billing, rather than as supporting characters who assist other scientists.

In AVP: Alien vs. Predator, Lathan portrays Alexa Woods, an environmental technician and expedition leader for a group of archaeologists, which makes her more than a scientist. She leads her fellow scientists and eventually prevails against two nearly unstoppable adversaries. Throughout this film, Alexa is a quick-thinking, resourceful heroine in escalating crises. Her final challenge lies in preventing any aliens from rising to Earth’s surface. Otherwise, the Predators and humans know that life on the planet will be completely destroyed.

Alexa’s first scene displays her endurance as she climbs the Lho La icefall in Nepal. In the middle of ascent, her ringing cell phone startles her, but she calmly and quickly secures herself in order to answer the call via the ear piece tucked beneath her cap. She, along with a team of experts, is flown in directly from the mountaintop via helicopter to meet with Charles Bishop Weyland (Lance Henriksen) to hear a description of the mission. Weyland’s satellites have discovered an unusual heat signature in Antarctica, and thermal imaging reveals a massive structure with hundreds of rooms built around a central core beneath the edifice. The pyramid itself displays characteristics from structures from Aztec, Cambodian, and Egyptian structures. Woods’ doubt about the safety of the mission leads her to turn it down. But Sebastian de Rosa (Raoul Bova) and Graeme Miller (Ewen Bremner) convince her to take the mission by asking if they have a better chance of surviving with her. The lack of experience of other scientists in her hazardous field and de Rosa’s gentle request convinces Alexa that she can work toward keeping the crew safe. Inevitably, Alexa is the only expert who can take on the mission with Weyland Industries to find what may be the earliest pyramid, 2,000 feet below Bogataya Island.

The team arrives at the abandoned whaling station on the Antarctic island. They discover that some sort of advanced thermal equipment has cut a perfectly angled tunnel straight toward the pyramid just before their arrival. As they begin to descend into the tunnel, Weyland loses his grip and starts plummeting toward a possible collision with the rocks and pyramid below. Alexa clearly notes his sliding body and lowers an ice hatchet onto the loose, unused hood of Weyland’s parka. In doing so, she saves the wealthy initiator of the project who, at times, sounds like a fatherly/great white benefactor standing in for Alexa’s late father, who died from complications related to a mountain climbing injury.

After losing Sebastian, the last member of her team who helped her figure out some of the written hieroglyphs, Alexa undergoes a significant hunting ritual of the Predators. She surrenders one of the artifacts, approaches a surviving Predator peacefully, and kills one of the aliens. This unlikely alliance places a Black woman in a role that is nearly nonexistent in U.S. cinema: a leader who survives an animal-like alien onslaught and a technologically-advanced hunter who could easily eliminate human life. Lathan could have reprised her role as Alexa Woods in the 2007 sequel Alien vs. Predator: Requiem or in other films, much like Sigourney Weaver as Ripley in the Alien franchise. But that opportunity never arose.

Before the release of the suspense-filled sci-fi action film AVP: Alien Versus Predator, Eddie Murphy starred as the lead in the 1996 remake of The Nutty Professor, which was originally a Jerry Lewis film made in 1963. Unlike the chemistry student Carla Purty (Jada Pinkett Smith) in Murphy’s first Nutty Professor, Denise Gaines (Janet Jackson) is Sherman Klump’s colleague in the sequel The Nutty Professor II: The Klumps. In her opening scene, Jackson dons wire-framed glasses and a blazer. Throughout the entire film, Jackson is covered in long sleeves and long skirts, like a modest academic who would rather downplay her physical attributes and draw attention to her intellect. Sherman wedges his way into a crowded lecture to listen to Denise explain her research as she points to an overhead projection featuring illustrations of DNA chains. Her research is related to a potential process for genomic extraction. An extraction such as this would remove risk factors from an individual’s DNA in order to prevent genetic health problems in the future.

In the next scene, Denise enters Sherman’s lab to pull him aside and talk to him one on one. As they walk under wide collegiate arches together, Denise tells him that she’s been invited to take a position at University of Maine, but she’s not sure if she wants to take it since she wants to stay because of her feelings for Sherman. In some ways, this reflects the difficulty that women faculty, including women of color STEM faculty often face, the challenge of finding a spouse. “Sherman, I’m not talking about research. Sherman, you’re very special to me. You are kind and decent. You are the most brilliant man I’ve ever known.” When Gaines says this and disregards Sherman’s size, the implication is that she loves him, not some conventionally attractive appearance he could have. Gaines’ perception of Sherman is reinforced after an outburst from Buddy Love, his bullying, overtly macho Jekyll-like, alter-ego. When Sherman proposes to Denise, he impresses her by writing/spraying “Marry Me” in the sky with a simulated hormone. It is his decency and intellectual prowess that leads to Denise accepting his proposal. They celebrate this happy moment after class in a lecture hall while they sip champagne out of beakers, and Chaka Khan’s “Tell Me Something Good” plays in the background. Their giggles and sips are followed by a major professional success when the boss of both Sherman and Denise, Dean Richmond (Larry Miller), notifies them that their research led to receiving a multi-million-dollar research grant from a fictional pharmaceutical company.

Although Denise is Sherman’s peer, not just his fiancée, her role is downplayed to emphasize the scenes where she participates in wedding festivities for her plans, including dinner with both sets of parents, trying on Sherman’s mother’s wedding dress, picking up an altered dress, and attending a bachelorette party complete with a fireman stripper dancing to Sisqo’s “Thong Song.”

Although there are some thoughtful moments that portray masculinity as a scholarly, sensitive man like Sherman Klump or his loving father Cletus, who can be tender with the wife he desperately wants to please, they are caricatures of Black people that stereotype plus-size people and older Black women by Murphy dressing in drag. When he plays Mama Klump and the hyper-sexual Granny Klump, the humor resides in creating a plus-size, undersexed mother and a representation of an older, lascivious Black woman with oversized, flapping breasts and bad dental health. This reliance on Granny Klump’s appetites as an ageist source of humor makes the sexuality of older women look absurd and completely undesirable. The women in the film (who aren’t Murphy in drag) are Denise, a couple of women that Sherman briefly greets on campus, and a few women of various ages in a club where Cletus tests out Sherman’s youth formula during a night out. In fact, Sherman’s nephew Ernie Klump, Jr. (played by Jamal Mixon) is the only person in the Klump family who is actually plus-size, and he has the least to say in the film. When he does speak, it is often to punctuate a moment of comic relief.

Aside from these shallow sizeist and stereotypical portrayals of Black people (especially Black women and Black families), one of the underlying messages is that a good woman can help save you. After convincing Dean Richmond that he can fix his declining intelligence and secure the pharmaceutical contract, Sherman takes a small amount of the youth formula and checks his computer to check the details of his rapidly progressing brain damage, which will only be reversed by ingesting some of the genetic material of Buddy Love. This isn’t necessarily consistent with science, but it offers a simple plot point.

After Dean Richmond and Sherman hurriedly leave to capture Buddy Love, Denise enters the laboratory to leave a note for Sherman. She understands the life-altering results of the file that Sherman carelessly left open. The details of the file reveal the genetic extraction that Sherman performed on himself without telling her, and she follows them to save Sherman. When she finds Sherman, he is barely able to speak, and they discover that some of Buddy Love’s genetic material has been absorbed into a water fountain. Denise forces Sherman to drink from it to restore his deteriorating intelligence. Even though she has access to the laboratory and she understands the file, Denise’s intellectual and scientific talents are primarily showcased in that first classroom scene where she is teaching, not necessarily in applied sciences, like Sherman.

Lastly, in Margot Lee Shetterly’s upcoming book Hidden Figures: The American Dream and the Untold Story of the Black Women Mathematicians Who Helped Win the Space Race (William Morrow, 2016), she focuses on the “women computers” of the Langley Research Center, of what would become NASA, who performed calculations that led to John Glenn’s walk on the moon. These women included Katherine G. Johnson, Mary Jackson, Dorothy Vaughan, Kathryn Peddrew, Sue Wilder, Eunice Smith, and Barbara Holley. In 2014, two years before the book’s publication, the book rights were sold and plans to launch the new film Hidden Figures began.

As more Black women assume the roles of scientists in major motion pictures, a better job can be done to make them instrumental, rather than ancillary, to the plots of such films.

See also at Bitch Flicks: 5 Women Scientists Who Need Their Own Movie ASAP

Tara Betts is the author of two full-length poetry collections Break the Habit and Arc & Hue. She is also the author of the chapbooks 7 x 7: kwansabas (Backbone Press, 2015), the upcoming Never Been Lois Lane (dancing girl press, 2016), and the libretto THE GREATEST!: An Homage to Muhammad Ali (Argus House/Winged City Press, 2013). Tara’s writing has appeared in The Source, XXL, Black Radio Exclusive, Essence, NYLON, and the blog for Ploughshares.

‘Jurassic Park’: Resisting Gender Tropes

Yet in rewatching ‘Jurassic Park,’ it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

Largely, Steven Spielberg is not known for overtly feminist portrayals of women in film. His work primarily focuses on similar motifs, chiefly that of father/son relationships. Yet in rewatching Jurassic Park, it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

A paleobotanist, Dr. Ellie Sattler is clearly respected in her field of her work. Unlike previous female scientists, Ellie is not merely present to fulfill the Male Gaze, or to act as a plot device driving the narrative forward. Too often in film and TV, women scientists are there to either look attractive, or to simply proffer information to their male counterpart without little discussion. Here, Ellie is not only an expert in her field; she is respected by her colleagues.

Take for example the scene in which Ellie offers her ideas as to the reason the triceratops is ill.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JylK4HuKMvQ”]

Both Ellie and Dr. Alan Grant (Sam Neill) are overcome with emotion, seeing the real life incarnation of a species to which they have spent their lives devoted to. But while Alan remains enamored, Ellie quickly acts, readily questioning the other men around her as a means to solve the reasons behind the illness of the animal. She does not act subservient or submissive. While Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) balks at the nature of Ellie’s investigations (determining the animal’s food source by inspecting its droppings), Ellie remains unfazed. Until this point, Ian has seen Ellie as a potential love interest, and while he acknowledged her education, he readily used his interactions with her to both showcase his own knowledge, and as an opportunity to educate Ellie. He attempts to highlight her intellectual failings because she, as a paleobotanist, does not have an understanding of chaos theory.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-mpifTiPV4″]

It is not until Ian witnesses Ellie demonstrating her own knowledge that he acknowledges that her function is not to simply act as a love interest, prompting him to remark upon her “tenacious” nature. This remark, acknowledged by Ellie’s colleague and partner Alan, is said both admiringly and begrudgingly — almost as if Ellie’s refusal to conform to the role of an archetypal love interest is both pleasing to see and frustrating.

It would have been easy for Dern’s character to have simply performed the role of love interest for the men in the film, and indeed the men in the film often try to impress upon her (and each other) that this is the role that she can perform. Ellie is aware of this, and makes this clear when Ian, again demonstrating his intellect, remarks, “God creates dinosaurs. God destroys dinosaurs. God creates man. Man destroys God. Man creates dinosaurs.” Ellie’s wry response, in which she states, “Dinosaurs eat man. Woman inherits the earth,” demonstrates her awareness of her gender and her status.

While Ellie is Grant’s partner, her narrative is not dependent on her involvement with him, and indeed, much of her narrative development takes place away from Grant. Returning to the compound while Grant is left to look after the children (arguably taking on the maternal role), Ellie is compelled to offer her help in order to reboot the system. She is aware of the dangers, but does so anyway. Her action, which she quickly undertakes with little debate, is decisive. She knows that her help is needed and despite her fears, she rapidly offers her services. Both Muldoon (Bob Peck) and Arnold (Samuel L. Jackson) accept Ellie’s participation without question. It is only John Hammond (Richard Attenborough), far older than the rest, who questions her decision. It is interesting that it is Hammond who expresses his displeasure with her involvement in the mission, largely given the noticeable generation gap between the three men in the room. Perhaps this is Spielberg’s attempt at noting the necessary progression in the treatment of women. Ellie herself explicitly draws attention to Hammond’s objections, bluntly stating, “Look … We can discuss sexism in survival situations when I get back.”

Ellie is willing to get involved and does not require rescuing, unlike her partner Alan, who spends the majority of the film both fulfilling a maternal role, but also hoping to find safety. Ellie is already safe through her decision to stay with the triceratops, but she is prepared to risk this in order to guarantee the safety of others. Ultimately, it is Ellie that rescues Alan, Lex (Ariana Richards), and Tim (Joseph Mazzello) as it is through her actions that they can retreat from danger.

Despite this, Alan does still attempt to protect Ellie, requesting that she try to reboot the system while he holds the velociraptor at bay. Ellie recognizes that Alan will not be able to hold the door on his own, so once again acts to help him, and in doing so fulfills the same role as him. As the pair hold the door together, their roles are no longer gendered. Notably, it is the other female character in the room that saves the four here. Lex’s superior technological knowledge successfully reboots the system, meaning that she, along with Ellie, has helped to save those remaining on the island.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFJekvpaua4″]

Importantly, Ellie is not an overtly sexualized character nor is she there to serve as simple set decoration; her clothes and styling are functional and appropriate to her job. She is allowed to be intelligent and brave without acting hysterical or panicked. The film affords her a fully developed, engaging, and interesting role.

Given that such a representation can be present in a successful film, it seems even more of a misnomer that so few female scientists are depicted on-screen. As has been noted, the original Jurassic Park is arguably more positive in its portrayal of women than the recent Jurassic World. Why this regression?

It is easy to list some of the representations of female scientists, as if the exception proves the rule, but until such representations are entirely normalized, not enough work is being done.

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

‘Contact’ 20 Years Later: Will We Discover Aliens Before Fixing Sexism?

But the entire gist is still pretty radical: A big-budget film about a woman leading a monumental mission that, if successful, would be the most important discovery of our time. ‘Contact’s feminism is all the more stunning to watch two decades after its release because of its stingingly accurate portrayal of sexism in science and refusal to appease the hetero-male gaze.

This guest post written by Maria Myotte appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

The math is unequivocally on the side of the alien enthusiasts. “You know, there are four hundred billion stars out there just in our galaxy alone,” Jodie Foster’s Dr. Ellie Arroway explains to Joss Palmer, played by a luxuriously coifed Matthew McConaughey in the 1997 hit movie Contact. She continues, gazing upward toward an expansive, clear night sky drenched in stars. “If only one out of a million of those had planets, and if just one out of a million of those had life, and if just one out of those had intelligent life, there would be literally millions of civilizations out there.” She’s explaining to him why after years of finding nothing at all she remains committed to searching for definitive proof of extraterrestrial intelligent life. Aliens exist, but they’re not easy to find.

Ellie Arroway is the protagonist of Contact (co-written by Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan), making this film one of very few to have a woman scientist at its center. There are some tells that it was released almost twenty years ago – creepy, obtuse email communication, giant computers, the use of multiple scrunchies – but the entire gist is still pretty radical: A big-budget film about a woman leading a monumental mission that, if successful, would be the most important discovery of our time. Contact’s feminism is all the more stunning to watch two decades after its release because of its stingingly accurate portrayal of sexism in science and refusal to appease the hetero-male gaze.

We are introduced to Arroway as a young girl, hanging with her Dad and paging truckers across the country. She is enthralled with radio signals’ abilities to contact truckers farther and farther away. When we see Arroway as an adult, she wears casual, comfortable clothing. Her hair is almost always pulled back from her face as she listens for any discrepancy in the vastness of space sounds. She is never objectified, nor is a romantic relationship foundational to the plot. Arroway’s romantic dalliance with Palmer flits throughout the film, but their relationship is defined by their philosophical opposition – she is a woman of science and empirical proof, he is a “man of the cloth without the cloth” and eventually a religious advisor to the President. Their conflict frames an essential tension of the movie. When they are together, they are not flirting, fighting, or dry or wet humping. They discuss in depth their personal and professional passions, like real people do as they get to know each other. The single, near-sex scene shapes more of Arroway’s personality. The morning after she sleeps with Palmer, he implores, “How can I contact you?” She says, “Leave your number,” and she skedaddles off to do science. This is the 90s, so he scrawls his number on a sticky note and underlines the words “Please Call.” She never does, because she gets her funding pulled and immediately starts a sojourn to raise money to continue her life’s work.

During her quest to find “little green men,” Arroway deals with ridicule from her male colleagues and supervisors, challenges with funding, and warnings that she is committing career suicide. Her supervisor, an older man and science big-wig, Dr. David Drumlin, scolds her early in the movie, reducing her career to two possibilities, “One… there is intelligent life out there, but you’ll never contact it in your lifetime, and two… There’s nothing out there but noble gases and carbon compounds, and you’re wasting your time. In the meantime, you won’t be published, you won’t be taken seriously and your career will be over before it’s begun!” The same warnings were levied at the woman Arroway’s character is based on, Dr. Jill Tarter, the former long-time director of SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) Institute and all-around mega-inspiring galactic badass.

But, unlike Dr. Tarter (yet), Arroway ultimately finds stunning proof of alien life in a three-dimensional radio signal containing instructions for building some sort of spaceship beamed to Earth from somewhere near the star Vega. After Arroway takes in the realness of her discovery, she alerts her network. Men swarm her lab with interruptions, patronizing warnings, mansplanations, and of course, claims to her discovery. Her foil, Drumlin, who previously revoked her funding and access to satellites, appears almost instantaneously to claim the discovery as his own. At every pivotal moment where a decision, expert, or spokesperson is needed to comment on the findings, Drumlin subtly overpowers Arroway and becomes the face of the discovery. The series of quiet defeats she endures is a crucial representation of how gender discrimination in science careers functions. Today’s stunning lack of women, especially women of color, in leadership positions in science is not the result of a single, shitty, sinister apple. Rather, it’s a series of assumptions, biases, and privileges that results in a system and culture that vaults mostly white men into the most prestigious positions where they enjoy almost total immunity from being held accountable to discriminating against and harassing women. Although bias against women in the sciences is well-documented, the very folks who need to change their behavior to help fix the problem – dudes in science – don’t believe it’s really a thing, even when shown compelling evidence.

This toxic stew of denial and power produces a culture where it is extraordinarily difficult for women to speak out against discrimination or abuse. Perhaps that’s why every time Arroway should rip into Drumlin for being a despicable human, she doesn’t. The closest she comes to confronting him is after it’s been decided that he, not her, will be shoved into the alien orb they built from instructions in the radio signal and blasted off into space as Ambassador of Earthlings to meet whomever sent the invitation. He acknowledges that she must think “this is all really unfair” but explains that the “bottom-line” is that the world doesn’t work that way, to which she politely retorts, “Funny, I’ve always believed that the world is what we make of it.” A deeply unsatisfying moment.

Today, it seems to take a hoard of women publicly calling out problems simultaneously, like sexual harassment (Bill Cosby, Roger Ailes) before anyone begins to acknowledge that the individual in question might be guilty. In January of this year, a tidal wave of stories from women astronomers who have been sexually harassed poured into Twitter with the hashtag #AstroSH. A renowned astronomer at Berkeley left the faculty after being found guilty of sexual harassment over a period of ten years. The university’s Dean of the Law School also resigned under similar circumstances. And like so many other examples across sectors, the administration had intentionally kept the harassment cases secret. The ubiquity of the harassment and discrimination exemplified by the experiences shared online with #AstroSH is made possible by a network of people and institutions which opt to not believe women, ignore them outright, and cover up evidence of wrongdoing by the men in question.

Similarly, Drumlin’s usurpation of Arroway’s discovery isn’t challenged by anyone. In fact, assumptions made by the gaggle of folks responsible for moving the project forward do a lot of this work for him. At the first public press conference about the discovery, we see Drumlin and Arroway standing off to the side of a packed room while then President Bill Clinton tries to keep his cool while explaining the brain-liquefying findings to reporters. Arroway nervously shuffles her notecards for the speech she is about to give. Her face is stressed, expectant. As the press secretary introduces the scientist responsible for the discovery, Arroway walks toward the lectern and passes right in front of Drumlin. He stays put. At the last minute, we hear Drumlin’s name announced, a surprise to both of them, but he doesn’t pass up the opportunity and confidently struts toward the front of the room to declare Arroway’s discovery as his own to the entire world. So, Drumlin’s not on a vicious, power-hungry bender; after mocking and obstructing Arroway’s life-mission, he practically crowd surfs into taking credit for it.

Arroway’s experience with sexism is not buried or subliminal; it is central to the plot. This means that the audience identifies with Arroway as she navigates these challenges and we root for her too. When Drumlin suffers a fatal injury during an explosion that destroys the machine before he or it has a chance to go anywhere, we know Arroway is about to have her day. And she does. She is dropped into the center of another machine where she eventually travels through a series of wormholes to the uber-advanced alien civilization that originally sent the message.

She manages to record the entire trip, verbally describing in detail what she sees along the way, like the wormhole transit system, the lights and structures from the alien civilization’s home planet, and the star’s solar system. She even talks with some sort of alien ambassador who takes the form of her Dad – a technology that turns their alien forms into recognizable humans which it says makes it easier for puny humans to understand what’s going on. When she wakes up on Earth, she’s told the machine malfunctioned. She was in the machine for only a few seconds. Instead of basking in triumph, her experience is literally put on trial.

Government officials accuse her of lying, having delusions, and being the victim of a bizarre prank. Arroway insists that her experience was real despite not having external evidence – ultimately forcing herself and the public to take her word for it, or take it on “faith.” But something else is happening too – a demonstration of how patriarchy conditions us to not believe women, even under the most spectacular and compelling of circumstances. This is made clear as we find out moments later that proof of Arroway’s journey existed all along – an otherwise unexplainable 18 hours of time recorded on the equipment she took on the trip – the same amount of time she guessed she was gone. In a hilarious because it might be true kind of way, Contact ends up showing how blasting through wormholes and meeting aliens might actually be more plausible than humans fixing sexism. It also celebrates real women in science today, like Dr. Jill Tarter, whose contributions too often get overlooked and omitted from history and pop culture.

Recommended Viewing: Join the SETI Search by Dr. Jill Tarter (TED Talk)

Image of Dr. Jill Tarter | Photo by Raphael Perrino via Flickr and the Creative Commons License.

Maria Myotte is a feminist writer, sci-fi and speculative fiction enthusiast, and progressive media strategist. In a parallel reality, she is a badass astrophysicist. Find her on Twitter at @mariamyotte.

The Female Scientists of ‘The X-Files’

‘The X-Files’ consistently worked against the idea that women could not be capable scientists. In fact, there is evidence to suggest that the character of Dana Scully inspired many young women to pursue education and careers in science and technology – what is now known as “The Scully Effect.”

This guest post written by Angela Morrison appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

In the world of The X-Files, female scientists are not treated as anomalies, or exceptions to the rule. Female scientists are prominent characters in many episodes and are (almost) always treated with great respect and regard. Not to mention, one of the two protagonists is the most kick-ass television scientist of all time – Dana Katherine Scully (Gillian Anderson).

Throughout the series, it’s revealed that Scully studied physics in university, and later attended medical school, before changing career paths to become an FBI agent – where she was eventually assigned to work with Special Agent Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) on The X-Files. Scully is both a brilliant scientist and an empathetic and intelligent FBI agent. She uses her skills as a medical doctor to assist with anything and everything: she performs autopsies, comes to the aid of those who are injured (Mulder, most of the time), and identifies anomalies in blood and cell samples – frequently identifying them as alien.

Writers such as Caitlin Flynn at Bustle have noted the reversal of gender stereotypes within the partnership of Mulder and Scully. Oftentimes in television and cinema, women represent the irrational, emotional, and uncontainable, while men offer the voice of reason and rationality. In the case of The X-Files, Mulder’s work is highly emotional for him as he passionately believes in all of the supernatural cases that he and Scully investigate. Scully is the skeptic, always questioning and challenging Mulder. She strongly believes in science, seeking to find a rational answer for every strange thing the duo encounter.

What makes Scully so great is that she is a complex, emotional person while simultaneously a rational scientist. She is always sympathetic to what Mulder says (even if she does roll her eyes at him constantly), and over the course of the series, her skepticism softens (it does take a very long time). Scully is also a devoted Catholic (which Flynn covers in her article) — her religious beliefs do not necessarily align with her scientific beliefs. But this does not make her a hypocrite. She believes in facts and nature, and at the same time she is spiritual and devoted to her faith. Jennifer Still at Bustle notes that Scully is complex and contradictory – a layered and brilliant character. Scully never takes off her golden cross necklace – except when she is abducted in the second season, and Mulder wears it as a symbol of his faith in Scully. Mulder is an atheist, but he believes in aliens. Scully is a scientist, but she believes in God – and they both respect each others’ beliefs.

Scully does not exist solely to be eye-candy for viewers, nor to only be Mulder’s love interest. From the very first episodes, the creators of the show make it clear that Mulder and Scully see each other as equals, and they immediately trust and respect each other. Yes, they are both beautiful, and yes, the chemistry between them is the best thing ever, but these facts never overshadow the incredible work they do together. The show does not opt for an explicit and predictable romance subplot. Instead, we see Mulder and Scully’s friendship and professional relationship blossom and take unexpected turns throughout the series. This is much more interesting, and it also indicates that Scully is an actual complex human woman, rather than a plot device to move along the male protagonist’s story.

Scully is also never treated as a “damsel in distress” – she and Mulder are kidnapped/abducted and put in dangerous situations in equal measures, and they both come to each others’ rescue whenever they can. Scully is never portrayed as “weak” just because she is a woman; she and Mulder are always portrayed as equally competent during action sequences. However, Scully does face everyday sexism on the job. There are male characters throughout the series who underestimate Scully because of her gender. But the show always proves them wrong and Scully is never afraid to call people out – in fact, she even calls Mulder out in the season 3 episode “Syzygy”: “I’m driving. Why do you always have to drive? Because you’re the big, macho man?” And of course, one of the best Scully lines ever, from season 6’s “Dreamland II”, in response to being called “baby”: “‘Baby’ me and you’ll be peeing through a catheter!” Scully always fights back against low-key sexism and proves that women should never be underestimated.

While the show acknowledges that women face stereotyping and sexism every day, it is also optimistic in its portrayal of women. Since the first season, female scientists have appeared in many episodes. Mulder and Scully work closely with these capable, at times complicated, yet fiercely intelligent women. Season 1 episode 8, “Ice,” features Felicity Huffman as Dr. DaSilva, a toxicologist and episode 9, “Space,” Michelle Generoo portrays Susanna Thompson, a NASA communications commander. These are professional women, highly skilled in their respective professions. Both Michelle and Dr. DaSilva use their extensive knowledge to provide Mulder and Scully with clues for solving the mysteries at hand. In season 1, episode 11, “Eve,” Dr. Sally Kendrick (Harriet Harris) is an evil genius, a former fertility doctor who figures out how to clone herself. Her characters could be seen as a problematic portrayal – a “crazy woman” trope – but the series features both male and female villains.

In “War of the Coprophages” from season 4, Dr. Bambi Berenbaum (Bobbie Phillips), an agricultural researcher and insect expert, helps Mulder understand the nature of cockroaches, to assist him with a case involving aggressive cockroaches. In season 5’s “Kill Switch,” Kristin Lehman plays Esther Nairn/”Invisigoth,” a computer expert. Both of these characters are objectified – Mulder flirts with Bambi, and the Lone Gunmen (Bruce Harwood, Tom Braidwood, and Dean Haglund) are immediately attracted to Esther. Scully expresses some jealousy, but it is very mild (played for laughs, not drama), and it does not stop her from working together with these women to solve cases.

The X-Files consistently worked against the idea that women could not be capable scientists. In fact, there is evidence to suggest that the character of Dana Scully inspired many young women to pursue education and careers in science and technology – what is now known as “The Scully Effect.” Representation in film and television is so important. Seeing characters such as Scully, Dr. Bambi Berenbaum, and even season 10’s Agent Einstein (Lauren Ambrose) — another medical doctor/skeptic — lead young women to believe that they are capable of following their dreams and being successful within the professional scientific community. Unfortunately, there’s a lack of diversity as the female scientists on The X-Files are all able-bodied, middle-class, white women. However, Scully and the other female scientists on the show have been kicking ass since the 1990s, proving that women — in both real life and on-screen — can be highly intelligent and complex human beings.

Angela Morrison is a Canadian cinephile who was raised by a female scientist (her mother, a medical laboratory technologist). She has written for Bitch Flicks before, for the Ladies of the 1980s theme week. She also writes about cinema on her blog.

‘Ghostbusters’ Is One of the Most Important Movies of the Year

They’re moved to realize that, after everyone talked shit about them for weeks or months on end, someone actually appreciated what they did. It’s a moment of art imitating life that mirrored my experience with ‘Ghostbusters’… I also vastly underestimated how powerful it would be, and how great it would feel, to watch an action-comedy with only women in the leading roles.

Written by Katherine Murray.

There’s a scene that takes place during the final credits of Paul Feig’s Ghostbusters reboot, in which the Ghostbusters look outside and see New York skyscrapers lit up with messages thanking them for saving the city. They’re moved to realize that, after everyone talked shit about them for weeks or months on end, someone actually appreciated what they did. It’s a moment of art imitating life that mirrored my experience with Ghostbusters so perfectly that I basically just started crying as soon as it happened.

Straight up: I saw this movie out of spite. I remember watching the original films and cartoon as a kid, but I wasn’t overly excited about either of them, or the news that the franchise was getting a reboot. I thought, shooting ghosts with lasers is pretty much the same thing no matter who’s doing it, right? I was wrong.

As the release date for Ghostbusters neared, the backlash against it grew. Apparently, there are a group of men who are offended by the idea that anyone would try, on purpose, to combat sexism in popular entertainment. In this worldview, making hundreds of movies that star groups of men is just natural and good – something with no political implication at all, because it’s what every reasonable person would do by default. Making a single movie that stars four women means you’re going to hell.

After watching this build over the past six months, I decided to vote with my wallet and pay to see Ghostbusters, even though I was still pretty sure I didn’t care about shooting ghosts with lasers. What I can report is that, while it’s not the best movie I’ve ever seen, it’s a pretty good action-comedy. I also vastly underestimated how powerful it would be, and how great it would feel, to watch an action-comedy with only women in the leading roles.

The nuts and bolts of the Ghostbusters remake are very similar to the original in terms of pacing and content. It takes a while to get going but, once the four main characters have met and resolved to start fighting ghosts, the action picks up, and the story gets a lot more exciting. The special effects are more intense than the original, and they’re gorgeous to look at. You’ve already seen a lot of the funniest jokes in leaked clips on the internet, but, while it’s not laugh-out-loud hilarious, the movie stays fun and amusing. The filmmakers are extremely diligent in making sure to reference the most famous scenes and set-pieces from the original series – one might argue that they’re diligent to the point of not letting the reboot step out from the shadow of the original – and most of the original cast members return for cameo appearances in one form or another.

All the evidence suggests that this was a very carefully considered and carefully planned reboot, designed to win over fans of the original. It’s not executed as well as the 2009 Star Trek reboot, but it’s executed better than Star Trek into Darkness, and better than I expected it to be, for sure.

Ghostbusters is very careful about gender presentation – there’s no sense that this is “the girl version of Ghostbusters” in the same way The Chipettes are the girl version of The Chipmunks. This is probably due, in part, to Feig’s preferred approach of allowing actors to improvise and draw on their own personalities to create characters. My favorite example of this, and the one mentioned in the article linked above, is that Kate McKinnon’s character, Holtzmann, comes across as having an ambiguous, vaguely queer sexuality in the film – something that McKinnon, the first openly gay women to join Saturday Night Live, brought to the table herself. There’s an amazing sequence, late in the film, where Holtzmann fights a cloud of ghosts and even as I was watching it part of me thought, “This wouldn’t have existed thirty years ago. If people like me got to shoot ghosts with lasers when I was a kid, maybe I would have thought shooting ghosts with lasers was more cool.”

Other aspects of the film felt more disappointing. The first is that, just as in the original, the only Black Ghostbuster is also the only one who doesn’t know anything about science and acts as a plain-spoken audience surrogate. Leslie Jones easily delivers the funniest performance in the movie, and it’s hard to imagine that she would have been able to do that if she were playing a serious, straight-laced scientist. But it still feels awkward that a film that’s so thoughtful in challenging Hollywood stereotypes of women didn’t think at all about the stereotype that white people are book smart and Black people are street smart, when it comes to forming action teams in movies. While Jones is defending the choice on the basis that there’s no reason why she can’t play a working class character, the concern for me is less about this individual movie and more about how it fits into a pattern.

Similarly, there is some weirdness around Chris Hemsworth’s appearance as the team’s pretty-but-stupid receptionist, Kevin. Kevin is clearly intended to be an inversion of the pretty-but-stupid female stock character, but it might have been more interesting not to use that stock at all. It’s funny that Kevin took the lenses out of his glasses so he wouldn’t have to clean them and that he keeps reaching for a decorative phone that’s kept behind glass. But when that’s coupled with Kristen Wiig’s character objectifying him, asking him inappropriate questions during a job interview, and sexually harassing him in the workplace, it starts to feel uncomfortable. I’d be willing to accept that the Ghostbusters are stuck with Kevin, even though he’s dumb, because he’s the only one who applied for the job. The movie would work just as well, and maybe better, without placing so much emphasis on how he looks.

Ghostbusters isn’t a perfect movie, but it’s one that’s claiming important ground for women in popular culture. By the end, I felt a lot like the citizens of fictionalized, ghost-ridden New York – pleasantly surprised and grateful that these women made an effort to do something I didn’t even know was needed, while the haters tried to tear them down.

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