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Older Women Week: ‘Notes on a Scandal’: The Older Woman As Predator and Prey

This is a guest post by Elizabeth Kiy.

“I don’t know. It’s just the distance between life as you dream it and life as it is.” –Sheba Hart

Notes on a Scandal film poster

In Notes on a Scandal, a 2006 British psychological thriller, a web of lies and manipulations form around the relationship of two schoolteachers who live very different lives.

Told through her point of view, the film takes viewers into the mind of Barbara Covett (Judi Dench), an elderly woman whose sweet voice and grandmotherly appearance hide a cunning mind and sinister intentions. She lives alone with her cat and confides only in her journal, whose entries form the film’s narration.

Her loneliness is compounded by this narrative technique, as Barbara is often given no one to play off of and instead watches interactions from a distance, remaining an entirely closed off person with a rich internal life she only reveals in her private writing. For an older woman, whose age, unmarried status and perceived lack of attractiveness leave her virtually invisible and of no value to society, this narration allows her to express her resentment. But underneath her malice is the profound loneliness of a woman who seems to have never learned how to connect to people and to remain in their lives without manipulations.

Barbara only confides her real opinions in her journal

To a degree, her isolation is self imposed as Barbara sees the people around her, students and teachers alike, as uncultured, unwashed and unilaterally badly behaved. That she sees herself as above them is highlighted in an early sequence when she watches the children come into the school from an upper floor window. This is the scene where Barbara first sees Sheba Hart (Cate Blanchett).

Sheba’s first appearance presents a sharp contrast. She floats, very blonde and pale in a sea of dark haired students in black uniforms and the viewer’s eye, aligned with Barbara’s, is easily drawn to her. While Barbara, a through disciplinarian in dowdy clothes, fits naturally into the school environment, Sheba is alien within it. It is suggested that she has no authority over the students because she still sees herself as a young person and wants to be their friend. The film also addresses the idea of class difference which further sets Sheba, with her upperclass background, apart from the working class pupils.

The details of Sheba’s life seem comfortable enough; she lives in a large, ornate house with her much older husband (Bill Nighy–who interestingly portrayed a love interest to Dench in Best Exotic Marigold Hotel) and her two children, a teenage daughter (Juno Temple) and a boy with Down syndrome, but none of it makes her happy. In a telling detail, a photograph of Sheba in her youth, dressed in a punk style, is shown in her studio.

Teenage Sheba was a Siouxsie & The Banshees fan

Like her pottery and the art in her shed, this photograph suggests a life unfulfilled, that she imagined a bigger, more bohemian life for herself. This was the time in her life when she felt most free and most herself, before she was married or had children, and it is this sense of fulfillment she tries to reclaim by ultimately entering into a relationship with one of her students.

Her relationship with 15-year-old Steven Connolly is particularly disturbing because actor Andrew Simpson certainly looks this age. At first, he satisfies her idealism, and helping him develop his potential as an artist makes her feel useful in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. She tells Barbara it was he who began to pursue her, constantly following her and playing on her sympathy with sad stories about his family life. The first time she leaves her family to meet him, lying about where she is going, the camera briefly lingers on her son and husband, showing her last minute hesitation.

In viewing the situation as one where he pursued her and she was helpless in her desire (whether or not Sheba’s story to Barbara is reliable), she allows herself to feel young, desirable and like a teenager again, experiencing clandestine affairs. In this sense, her much older husband is recast as her father, which Connolly thinks he is when he sees him. Sheba’s relationship with her daughter, who is the same age as Connolly, is also changed as they both enter a similar world of teenage dating.

Teenage Steven Connolly pursues Sheba

In the end, it becomes clear Connolly can’t take the burden of this complicated relationship and the knowledge that she has a family and feels he has been used by her. In her efforts to reclaim her own carefree youth, she has been stealing his and forcing him to grow up. In one telling scene, Connolly looks through her records and is unfamiliar with the artists, highlighting their age gap. The wrongness of Sheba’s actions is brought home to her when Connolly, naked post-sex tries on her son’s hat. At the sight of him, she is repulsed and forces him to take it off.

Though both women struggle with loneliness and are unhappy with their lives, the different ways they deal with similar emotions cast them in degrees as predator and prey.

Alone and undervalued, Barbara rapidly develops an obsession with her younger colleague, which makes her feel more vital and connected to the world. She is fascinated with the exotic character that Sheba seems to be, someone so different from her. She is also jealous of Sheba, as in her narration she says that people like her only think they know what real loneliness is. With this in mind, when she discovers Sheba’s affair with Connolly, she uses it to blackmail her into being her friend.

Though society easily defines a woman like Sheba as a predator, and she is punished with a jail sentence at the film’s end, Barbara’s predatory nature is much subtler and hidden. She looks at Sheba’s life noting how around her family, she acts in a serving position, making dinner and tidying the dining room while the others sit and talk, that she alone has had to take care of the children. This allows Barbara to resent Sheba’s family as a burden placed on her that she’d be glad to be rid of.

Several characters mention Barbara’s old friend, Jennifer, who she doesn’t want to talk about, suggesting she has had these obsessives friendships before. They also suggest Barbara’s attraction to Sheba is actually repressed lesbian desire, unfortunately casting this desire as predatory by connecting it with Barbara’s manipulations. In one scene, the camera, showing her point of view, focuses on an extreme close-up of one of Sheba’s golden hairs falling. Like a lover, Barbara holds it delicately, as if it is precious to her and saves it in her diary.

The camera shows Barbara’s point of view as she gazes at Sheba with lust

In addition, during a moment of casual dancing during her first visit to the Harts, Barbara’s eyes scan up Sheba’s body, and her dancing is shown in slight slow motion, accentuating Barbara’s lustful gaze. This gaze challenges the societal view of an older woman as a sexless grandmother and presents her as someone with active sexual desires.

Sheba is also guilty of manipulating Barbara and dismissing her because of her age. Early on, when she first begins to confide in Barbara, she sees her as a good person to talk to because she assumes she does not have her own life or secrets. She assumes a woman like Barbara would be glad just to have a friend, and dismisses any idea that she could have sinister intentions running contrary to the older woman’s assumed place in society as the grandmother. With this assumption, she begins to prey on Barbara’s loneliness, continuing to see Connolly and buying Barbara gifts to silence her. The viewer begins to feel sympathy for Barbara here as her narration reveals that she lives in a fantasy world, believing she has a wonderful relationship with this loving friend who will take care for her in her old age.

Barbara dresses as a doting grandmother to visit the Harts

Similarly, Barbara shows her first genuine smile when she is first invited to Sheba’s family dinner. Because the film follows her through the minute details of getting ready; buying clothes and having her hair done, the invitation is inflated in importance. As the details momentarily consume the film, the preparations seem to become her whole life, revealing how small, unimportant and lonely it is. The insert shot of her in the mirror, nervously touching her hair stresses her concern about looking a certain way and fitting into the role expected of her.

She emerges wearing pearls and carrying flowers, the very picture of a sweet grandmother.

The film takes great care to show Barbara in an unflattering light, making the signs of her age, her thinning hair, neck fat and heavily wrinkled skin, appear (for lack of a better word) pathetic. It also suggests Barbara’s appearance mirrors her cold-hearted nature. This seems a bit hypocritical, as much of the film can be interpreted to suggest that the older woman should not be dismissed as having none of her own desires and secrets. By aligning the film with Barbara’s point of view and then including scenes, like the overhead shot of Barbara smoking in the bath with her sweaty older body on display, it is suggested not only that she is monstrous, but that she sees herself as monstrous.

Barbara’s “monstrous” older body on display in a purposefully unflattering shot

The older unmarried woman is often portrayed in media in a very cliched fashion, as treating her pet like a child, and this point in Barbara’s character is a bit heavy-handed. Her most vulnerable, “pathetic” moments occur around her cat, Portia, and its failing health. The one time she is explicit about her sexual attraction to Sheba, when the camera, showing her point of view, pans down to Sheba’s breasts, is after she finds out Portia is terminal. Angered Sheba doesn’t reciprocate, she reveals that she fully understands Sheba’s state of mind when she delivers the ultimate insult, telling her, “You’re not young.” When Portia is put down, Barbara is bewildered and irrational and tries to force Sheba into being with her. She goes to Sheba’s house and screams at her, attempting to pull her away from her family exactly when she is trying to reconnect with them.

To Barbara, this final betrayal marks the end of their friendship, as she buries not only her cat, but the silver frame Sheba had given her. Having become completely unhinged, Barbara now wants to possess Sheba and become the only thing in her life, as Sheba is in Barbara’s. With this goal, she reveals Sheba’s relationship with Connolly.

The overwhelming solitariness of Barbara’s life is contrasted with Sheba’s warm family evening, through crosscutting between them, counting down the last moments of Sheba’s happiness. When the affair is revealed, Sheba’s house is swarmed by the media, and her family rejects her. With no one else left, she has to call Barbara and rely on her friendship when she has nothing else.

Sheba, in her punk make-up, discovers the journal

Alone in Barbara’s apartment, Sheba tries to convince herself that she is still young and attractive, by applying punk make-up, finally visually becoming the teenage girl she had felt like.

As she sits, considering herself in the mirror, she discovers ripped pages from Barbara’s diary and, furious and scared, she begins to search for it. The film cuts between Barbara innocently shopping for their new life and Sheba discovering her obsessions and manipulations.

In the end, Sheba returns home to talk with her husband and rebuild her family, while Barbara sits with her new notebook, speculating on the life she could have lived with Sheba. Time passes and Barbara meets a new woman and begins her predatory advances all over again.

Barbara makes a new friend and the story begins again

Notes on a Scandal is an interesting film to look at through a lens of age, as it portrays elderly and middle-aged women being driven to manipulate each other and those around them by their fear of growing old and being (or feeling) alone. It is complicated in its depiction of lesbianism, its suggestion that a teenage boy is responsible for seducing his teacher, and its often cliched presentation of an elderly woman as a spinster worthy of pity.

Elizabeth Kiy has a degree in journalism with a minor in film from Carleton University. She lives in Toronto, Ontario and is currently working on a novel.

Older Women Week: Telling Stories: ‘My House in Umbria’

Film poster for My House in Umbria

This is a guest post by Amanda Civitello.

Emily Delahunty is a writer of fiction. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of My House in Umbria, a beautifully atmospheric film by Richard Loncraine starring the inimitable Maggie Smith. Smith shines in a rich role that takes advantage of her great skill. Too often we praise her – as I did for Bitch Flicks here – for her fantastic comic timing and cut-glass wit, forgetting that she is a dramatic actress as well, and worthy of much better parts than those that ask her to do little more than deliver a one-liner. That’s sadly what seems to garner her recognition these days: an impeccable demonstration of acerbic wit in the form of what Smith deems a “spiky old lady.” In a season of melodrama and over-the-top performances on Downton Abbey, for example, there was one standout moment of arresting, extraordinary acting, and it belonged to Maggie Smith, standing alone beneath the stone arches in the aftermath of her Lady Sybil’s death. She looked for all the world as if burdened by innumerable sorrow, and it was an utterly heartbreaking image. My House in Umbria gives Smith the opportunity to exercise her considerable mastery in a part that provides ample moments of similarly reflective silence as well as witty repartee.

In contemporary Italy, a terror attack on a train leaves only four survivors from a carriage of eight. Mrs. Delahunty, of course, is a survivor, as is the General (Ronnie Barker), a young German man (Benno Fürmann), and a little American girl (Emmy Clarke, in a remarkable performance for such a young actress). When the survivors can’t return to their homes until the investigation is complete, Mrs. Delahunty, an English expat, welcomes them to her villa in Umbria. There, they all find healing in each other’s company, the quiet routine of the countryside, and the presence of the little girl orphaned by the tragedy. Aimee arrives at the house rendered mute by the tragedy and the loss of her parents, but through the persistence and attention of Mrs. Delahunty, the others, and the staff – including Timothy Spall in a great turn as Quinty, manager of the estate – she soon finds her voice again, and it is she who inspires healing, forgiveness, and hope in the others. Their insular little community is rocked, however, by the arrival of Aimee’s estranged uncle, who comes to take her back to America, as Aimee’s departure threatens to destroy their tentative peace.

Maggie Smith as Mrs. Delahunty in My House in Umbria

“We are the stories we tell ourselves,” director Shekhar Kapur asserted in a TED talk about creativity, and that’s true; put differently, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” wrote Joan Didion in 1979. We tell ourselves stories to overcome hardship, to reason ourselves out of the incomprehensible. We dream up explanations and embellishments. We protect ourselves and entertain ourselves, and in the end, there is often little difference between what actually happened and what we say happened. After a while, we come to believe the story, to find it true rather than fictitious, and our perspective is shaped accordingly.

“We survived,” Emily is fond of saying to a number of characters in the film – and while she’s obviously referencing the terror attack when she speaks to her fellow “walking wounded” – it’s apparent from its very first utterance that Emily has survived far more than the explosion in carrozza 219. As her story unfolds, we come to discover that Emily is a survivor of childhood abandonment: she was sold as an infant to a childless couple by her parents who had no place for a child in their circus-act lives. She’s a survivor of sexual abuse and a survivor of a succession of abusive relationships. She traveled extensively with boyfriends pursuing extraordinarily odd jobs. Emily recounts her own troubled history as a kind of story, her memories tinged with a distinctly literary tone, and at times – and like the characters – one questions the veracity of some of her stories, particularly when her version doesn’t exactly mesh with another’s. But does it really matter if they’re true or not?

The surrealist depiction of the terror attack itself

For Mrs. Delahunty, these kinds of stories seem to come as naturally as breathing: she invents entire lives for the strangers around her – like this writer has done since she started dreaming up stories for the staid nuns teaching her lessons – and relates them with such authority that it’s difficult to retain a critical air about them. We believe the stories Mrs. Delahunty tells because she believes them. Maggie Smith underscores this over and over again. She crinkles her eye, purses her lip, fiddles with her sunglasses or her ever-present glass of grappa in such a way that, even as we believe wholeheartedly in the story Mrs. Delahunty weaves, we can’t help the flicker of incredulity that creeps up. Of course, we do believe her, as the writer intended, but our perception of Mrs. Delahunty is marked by the subtle reminders from Smith to listen with a critical ear.

Because of this, My House in Umbria succeeds primarily on the strength of Smith’s acting. Much of the film consists of an internal narrative, in which we hear through voiceover Smith’s thoughts on the fellow passengers who become her houseguests. She concocts background stories for each of them, a mixture of dreams, astrology, and deductions liberally sprinkled with what she wants their stories to be. She wants to create, for example, a love story between Werner and the young woman accompanying him. When the General takes to Aimee, she decides that it’s down to a bit of guilt about the way he raised his own daughter who perished on the train. These ideas are rooted in her observations, of course, but they aren’t necessarily real. The General might have actually had a very good relationship with his daughter, for example, barring his dislike of her husband, and might not harbor any regrets over her childhood. Of course, he might not, but it doesn’t matter; what matters is that Mrs. Delahunty believes these stories, and we believe them right along with her. It’s to the credit of actors like Timothy Spall, Ronnie Barker, and Chris Cooper that they deliver the kind of quiet, restrained performances that render Mrs. Delahunty’s musings believable.

Emmy Clarke as Aimee and Maggie Smith as Mrs. Delahunty in My House in Umbria

Her stories ultimately influence the ways in which she interacts with her guests, most notably Mr. Riversmith (Chris Cooper), Aimee’s estranged uncle. Through a bit of eavesdropping and her own tendency to dramatize a situation, Mrs. Delahunty – to her mind – fleshes out Mr. Riversmith’s character, melding bits of reality (he’s a professor who studies the carpenter ant) with logical extensions and explanations, some of which require her to dismiss the observations that don’t quite fit her narrative. (She steadfastly refuses, for example, to leave him alone as his body language would attest, convincing herself that it’s a front.) Mr. Riversmith, however, is the one guest who fights back against her, refusing her repeated offers of a drink – “You could do with a drink,” Mrs. Delahunty asserts time and again, to which Mr. Riversmith replies, in escalating anger, that he drinks little, if at all, and certainly not at 9am – and suggesting she kindly get her nose out of his business. Yet, Mrs. Delahunty persists, and it’s to Smith’s credit that we cheer her on, and see the value in it, even when it becomes uncomfortable to watch.

The film’s climax sees Mrs. Delahunty, sloshed beyond belief on her grappa, stumble into Mr. Riversmith’s bedroom in the middle of the night, clutching a bottle and two glasses, and demanding that he speak to her (and share a drink, of course). She levels all of her conjectures at him – her reasoning about Werner, her thoughts about healing as a group, the defaults she finds in his character, and, above all, her desperate need to keep Aimee in Italy. She is practically paralyzed with fear and sorrow at Aimee’s leaving; her anxiety reveals itself in a surprising way. There’s always been an undercurrent of latent romance on Mrs. Delahunty’s part; here it bubbles to the surface in a scene achingly sad in its desperation. She opens her robe and offers him her breast, and, to her shock, he shields his eyes and turns away. The anger melds with crushing disappointment in Smith’s expression – but at what? At Riversmith’s refusal? (She is a woman, after all, who remarks in the opening scene that men still continue to give her a second appreciative glance.) At Riversmith’s defiance? We aren’t sure, and neither is Mrs. Delahunty.

The General teaching young Aimee the Cha-Cha

For the real truth of Mrs. Delahunty’s stories has nothing to do with actual events or actual personalities and everything to do with seeing the heart of a person or a situation. She has a knack, through her fictionalizations, to make blatantly, disturbingly, brutally honest observations of the people around her. (She cracks the case before the inspector does; not by research and detective work, as he does, but on the strength of a dream and eagle-eyed observation.) And it’s Mrs. Delahunty, therefore, who manages, in a web of conjecture, to get at the core of Mr. Riversmith’s character: his guilt. “Colpa,” she tells him before he throws her out of his room, her voice wavering in her drunkenness. “It means guilt. We all of us feel colpa about something. Do not, I beg you, let colpa stand in the way of your actions.” He responds with an angry, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

“I think you do,” Mrs. Delahunty replies. “You feel colpa because you never made peace with your sister. And because of that, you feel obliged to take the child back with you.” He’s never said as much to her, of course – he never mentioned Aimee’s mother apart from a brief acknowledgment that he had never met Aimee because of his falling-out with her mother, his sister.

The tension between Mrs. Delahunty and Mr. Riversmith comes to a head when she argues with him late at night

And yet she is right: he does feel guilty, and, the following morning, Aimee returns home, welcomed back into Mrs. Delahunty’s arms in a beautifully shot scene. This parallels the shot of Aimee standing at the window as the carriage explodes, the light bright behind her; in this scene we see her lit from behind, away from the window, locked in a loving, maternal embrace. There’s no need to emphasize the Italian, or to couch her words in bumbling poetry. It’s a literary trick, to use a foreign word in place of an English translation, and one we’d expect to find on the page rather than on screen. But in Smith’s hands it transfers marvelously to film, and we’re reminded, once again, that all of this has been made possible because Mrs. Delahunty sees the world as a writer of fiction.

My House in Umbria is in many ways a meditation on fiction and characterization, on the way we writers create characters from those around us, and fictionalize our friends. It is, on a smaller scale, about grief and about survival. What it is not about is justice: there’s nothing more than the sketchiest of explanations for the perpetration of this crime; there is no arrest, and the terrorist ultimately gets away. This is unsurprising, perhaps, as the attack itself is presented in a dream-like, surreal manner, happening in slow motion as if it’s already a memory. In that particular sense, My House in Umbria is not especially satisfying. But as a film that grapples with the concept of forgiveness in the wake of tragedy, My House in Umbria is hugely successful. For Emily, writing and forgiveness (and guilt, yes) are inextricably linked.

Aimee’s return home, with the sunlight streaming behind her

And yet, through all of this, Emily is a writer with a terrible case of writer’s block. She writes the odd phrase in her notebook, but throughout the film, we never see her write. Her literary career is in the past, her interest in her work having been eclipsed by a steadily increasing dependence on alcohol. The ending is happy not just because Aimee returns home but because Mrs. Delahunty seems to find her own footing again. “She’s happier than she’s ever been,” Quinty remarks to the General, and then, Mrs. Delahunty says it herself, marveling that she feels the inspiration to write returning to her after a long winter. What makes Maggie Smith a great actress, of course, is that she develops incredible depth to her characters. Far too often, an older actress must create that intensity for herself out of a supporting part that’s lacking in complexity or that’s rich in tropes. In My House in Umbria, Maggie Smith delivers an exquisite performance that should drive home to screenwriters the necessity of writing complex roles for older women: Smith takes a well-rounded character and rich scenario and makes them so compelling, so enthralling, so utterly fascinating that one wonders why screenwriters aren’t lining up to craft such parts for her. And, more importantly, why the parts waiting for her are reinventions of the same, tired tropes.

Amanda Civitello is a Chicago-based freelance writer and Northwestern grad with an interest in arts and literary criticism. She is the editor of Iris, a new literary magazine with an LGBTQ+ focus for YA readers. She has contributed reviews of Rebecca, Sleepy Hollow, and Downton Abbey to Bitch Flicks. You can find her online at amandacivitello.com.

Older Women Week: Charlize Theron: Too Hot to Be Wicked?

Film poster for Snow White and the Huntsman

This is a guest post by Katherine Newstead.

When I first heard that Charlize Theron was going to play The Wicked Queen in Snow White and the Huntsman (Sanders, 2012) I thought this was completely ridiculous; Theron is way too young and, frankly, way too hot. However, that was kind of the point.

Ravenna, aka The Wicked Queen, Theron’s character, bases her whole existence on maintaining her beauty and youth and stands as a symbol for women’s supposed fear of ageing and anxiety toward the ageing female body.

Charlize Theron is the Queen of Wicked Hot

In a scene toward the beginning of Snow White and the Huntsman, during Ravenna’s and the King’s wedding night, she tells of how she has replaced his old (emphasis on the “old”) Queen, and how, in time, she too would have been replaced. Thus, Ravenna speaks of the “natural” cycle of youth replacing age and appears to blame patriarchy for this situation, as men “toss women to the dogs like scraps” once they have finished with them.

“When a woman stays young and beautiful forever, the world is hers.”

Mirror, Mirror … er, not on the wall

Ravenna truly believes that the maintenance of age guarantees success. And why not? How many anti-ageing adverts will be shown on television today, promoting the latest magical cure for the horrors of ageing. Such adverts have been labelled as responsible for cultivating a new trend for female narcissism as a form of liberation and emancipation yet, as Douglas writes, it is not patriarchy that women blame for the flaws and disappointments that they see in themselves, but themselves (1995).

What is the most obvious symbol of narcissism? A mirror, naturally. And who has a mirror? The Wicked Queen; I see a connection forming. Ravenna’s somewhat obsessive relationship with her mirror is what ultimately becomes her downfall, not her relationship with Snow White. It is the mirror that goads her, telling her that she is not the most beautiful woman in the land; that would be Snow White, who never looks in the mirror and therefore isn’t haunted by the need to find, and ultimately destroy, perfection. As Waugh states:

Mirrors offer an illusory image of wholeness and completeness, the promise of the security of possession, but they too are agents of oppression and control, enticing us with their spurious identifications. (1989:12)

See, this is what happens when you don’t moisturise

Thus, Ravenna’s narcissism is fuelled by her mirror, which has a male voice (funny, that), and reflects (literally) the views of society, a society that is told time and again that to be successful and like, wanted, you have to appear young and beautiful.

So, oppressed by the chidings of the man in the mirror, Ravenna tries to ensure that she remains the most beautiful woman of all, and God help you if you get in her way. Ravenna literally sucks the life force out of any young woman in her path, perhaps a tad symbolic? You may be young and beautiful, but your anxieties about your rapidly ageing body — *points at Ravenna* — will eventually suck all the goodness out of you. Not to mention the years of hard work you’ll no doubt face, what with menstruating, having babies, getting paid less than anyone with a penis … I digress.

But, seriously, Ravenna stands like a team mascot for post-feminist discourse on doing it for yourself, looking out for number one, revelling in your new found ability to look hot — at whatever the cost — and mow those bitches down who dare get in your way. Oh, and the whole thing about women becoming invisible once they reach a certain age and being overlooked by a society that sees them no longer economically viable? Yeah, Ravenna is far from invisible, what with all the shouting, killing, turning into a murder (right?) of crows. It’s like she’s saying, “HELLO? I’m still here, I still exist. I can be beautiful (and economically useful to society) toooooooooo!”

Charlize Theron in Snow White and the Huntsman

Yeah, so Charlize Theron as The Wicked (though not so old) Queen? PERFECT casting. Wish I’d thought of it myself.

Bibliography

Douglas, S. (1995) Where the Girls Are: Growing up Feminine with the Mass Media, Times Books: United States.

Waugh, P. (1989) Feminine Fictions: Revisiting the Postmodern, Routledge: London.

Katherine Newstead is a 27 year-old Film Studies postgraduate, from the University of Exeter. After completing her Masters dissertation on the representation of girlhood in the Disney fairy tale, she has returned to the University of Exeter to write her PhD thesis on the “Othering” of older women in the contemporary cinematic fairy tale.

Older Women Week: ‘The First Wives Club’: "Don’t Get Mad. Get Everything."

Film poster for The First Wives Club

This is a guest post by Jen Thorpe.

The First Wives Club is the story of four women who became friends with each other when they were in college. After graduation, the friends ended up drifting apart. This is a situation that happens to a lot of women. Life gets in the way.

People get married, have children, and (hopefully) find “real jobs.” It becomes increasingly difficult to find the time (or the energy) to socialize with friends who are no longer a part of our day-to-day lives. When you are in your 20s, you truly believe that you will be best friends forever. You intend to stay connected. Years later, you wonder whatever happened to those friends (whom you haven’t heard from in years).

In the movie, three of the friends reunite after learning that the fourth friend, Cynthia Swann Griffin (played by Stockard Channing) died by suicide after her husband divorced her. The surviving friends are now in their mid-forties. Each one is either divorced or is going through the process of divorce.

The movie does a good job of picking up on some of the thoughts that women who are 40 or over struggle with. Elise Elliot (played by Goldie Hawn) is overly concerned about aging. There is a scene where she begs her plastic surgeon to make her lips fuller (again). He resists, reminding her of all the plastic surgery she has already undergone and pointing out that she is beautiful.

Elise looking for wrinkles at the plastic surgeon’s office

Not every woman over 40 is going to turn to plastic surgery as a “fountain of youth.” Elise chose it because she is an actress who is having difficulty finding work. Suddenly (or so it seems to Elise) she is only being offered the role of “the mother.” For her, aging essentially means that she will no longer have a career. Elise is the perfect example of what really does happen to actresses once they turn 40.

She is a more extreme example of what many women (who are not actresses) feel when their hair starts turning gray and they begin to get “crow’s feet.” The fear is that these very natural parts of aging mean that the woman is no longer desirable, or sexy, or beautiful. There are women who are absolutely terrified of “getting old” because they worry that no one will want them.

Unfortunately, this fear is not an unfounded one. Elise’s husband, Bill Atchison (played by Victor Garber) is divorcing her and has started dating a woman who is much younger than than Elise. Tension builds when Elise is asked to play the role of “the mother” in a script where Bill’s new lover will play the lead role of the daughter.

A similar thing happened to Brenda Cushman (played by Bette Midler). She got married to Morton “Morty” Cushman when they were young, ran the cash register in his electronics stores, and had a son with him. Now, Brenda is 45 and Morty has left her and gotten into a serious relationship with Shelly Stewart (played by Sarah Jessica Parker). Brenda and Morty’s fifteen-year-old son has trouble coping with this situation.

Brenda laments to her friends that everything with she and Morty was just fine. Then, on their 20th wedding anniversary, Morty began having what Brenda calls a mid-life crisis. In short, he decides that she isn’t fun anymore and is holding him back. He replaces her with a thinner, younger, blond woman who is about half her age.

“Who’s supposed to wear that? Some anorexic teenager?”

There is a scene where Brenda is walking past a department store with a friend. She stops to look at a tiny black dress in the window. “Who’s supposed to wear that?” she rhetorically asks her friend, “Some anorexic teenager? Some fetus?” Her rant continues with her intent to lead a protest by never buying any more clothing until the designers “come to their senses.”

Her words are something I can personally relate to. I recently turned 40, and I am no longer the “anorexic teenager” that I was in high school. I’ve gained some weight since then. This is normal. We get older, our metabolisms slow down, and weight loss becomes more difficult. I, too, wonder when the designers will “come to their senses” and produce clothing that adult, women can actually fit into!

Annie Paradis (played by Diane Keaton) has a slightly different story. She isn’t actually divorced yet. She and her husband Aaron Paradis (played by Stephen Collins) are separated. They had been going to couple’s therapy but now are each seeing a therapist individually. Annie truly believes that they are in the process of working things out and getting back together.

Her daughter, Chris Paradis (played by Jennifer Dundas) describes her mother as a “doormat.” Chris is a college student and old enough to see that her father isn’t treating her mother very well. She is frustrated that her mom allows it. Unlike Brenda’s son, Chris doesn’t want her parents to get back together.

There is a scene where Annie is going on (what she believes) is a date with Aaron. She is convinced that he is going to tell her that he wants to get back together. Instead, after they have become intimate in his hotel room, he announces that he wants a divorce. This completely destroys Annie.

She is a woman who, like many women, has issues with self-esteem. After a lifetime of suppressing her anger, and striving to always be “nice,” Annie finally lets out her feelings in a loud, sobbing, messy way. At the same time, the phrase she uses most often during this catharsis is “I’m sorry.”

Annie screaming “I’m sorry!!!”

Annie, Brenda, and Elise form the “First Wives Club” and decide that they want to find a way to take revenge upon their husbands. The main plot of the movie focuses on the many ways the women do exactly that. Their ex-husbands find themselves losing favorite possessions, losing money, and (potentially) losing their jobs. Women who are going through a divorce may want to watch this movie simply to live vicariously through it. What happens is overblown and unlikely to happen in the real lives of most women.

Later, the women start to want more than revenge. They decide to turn their efforts toward helping other divorced women. Again, this requires their ex-husbands, whom they have now managed to blackmail, to spend more money. To me, this part of the plot felt a bit forced and strange. The change from “let’s get ’em” to “let’s open a charity” was rather abrupt.

The First Wives Club was released in 1996, a time when almost no one carried a cell phone. As such, the majority of phone calls that take place in the movie are done on land-line phones with clunky receivers. There is a scene where Brenda goes out to dinner by herself. She doesn’t spend the meal fiddling with her cell phone – and neither do any of the other people in the restaurant. Times have changed since the late 1990’s (and realizing this makes me feel “old”).

Jen Thorpe is a freelance writer, podcaster, and gamer. She is the cofounder of the No Market website (nomarket.org) and writes for it frequently on a wide variety of topics and subjects. You can keep up with everything she does by following her @queenofhaiku.

Older Women Week: Aging and Existential Crisis in ‘3rd Rock from the Sun’

Poster for 3rd Rock from the Sun

This is a guest post by Jenny Lapekas.

3rd Rock from the Sun follows the story of four aliens sent to earth in human form to study the ways of humans. Their mission was originally supposed to last only one day, but the High Commander, Dick Solomon (the delightful John Lithgow) extends it to six hilarious seasons filled with the flamboyant comedy and intelligent, pithy dialogue we rarely see or expect anymore in the American sitcom. What the crew doesn’t anticipate are both the joys and inconveniences of their human bodies: emotions, sexuality and relationships. Dick immediately falls for his office mate at Pendleton University, Dr. Mary Albright (Jane Curtin), who finds him pompous, arrogant and strange beyond belief. Although Dick mocks Mary’s thesis, wrecks her car and even breaks up with her to date the university’s new English professor, Mary comes to love Dick and can never keep away from him for too long. Harry (French Stewart), the “Transmitter,” is the clueless brother, Sally (Kristen Johnston), “Security Officer,” is the seductive but unrefined sister, and Tommy (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), “Information Officer,” is the eldest of the crew, but confined to an adolescent earth body. Throughout the series’ run, Jane Curtin was in her 50s, and the show’s treatment of her age reflects this.

Upon their arrival, the aliens count their fingers and toes in their Rambler.

Mary is a powerful presence in the series; she’s an attractive, articulate college professor with a Ph.D. and the heart of Dick Solomon, the High Commander in his wacky group of interplanetary adventurers. While Harry is undoubtedly a queer figure in his role as the buffoon within the somehow functional family unit, and Nina, Mary’s assistant, arguably remains stuck in her typecast role as the “sassy, black woman,” Mary’s position as an older woman propels her through the series as ironically naive, desperate for acceptance from a band of outsiders, and hopelessly in love with Dick. Although Mary is initially disliked by Dick’s family, Sally, Harry and Tommy warm up to her after she proves that her earnest sensibilities compliment Dick’s rashness, exuberance and incessant need for the spotlight. While Dick’s antics are endearing, certainly, Mary’s drive for stability is an unmistakable dynamic in the pair’s relationship, especially while in the company of Dick’s family.

Mary goes camping with the group, and Sally reluctantly bonds with Mary when, applying ointment to a blister on Sally’s foot, Mary shows her a scar on her chin, the result of a field hockey scuffle with a girl when she was younger. Mary claims, “I dropped my stick and opened her up like a melon,” and an impressed Sally responds, “Albright, you’re pretty tough…for a prissy little bookworm.” As the Security Officer of the mission, Sally relates to Mary through the theme of violence. This pleasant moment appears as the result of Mary’s wisdom and life experiences, which are, in this case, unexpected since Mary is, after all, only a “bookworm” in the eyes of Dick’s family. Because Sally is young and beautiful, and she arrives to earth gendered as a male who is bitter about his anatomy and not romantically attracted to men initially, she enters the scene with male privilege and feels entitled to dismiss Mary as a mere distraction for Dick, who should be focusing on the mission; however, we come to find out that Mary is the mission. Because Sally stands out as an obvious feminist character–an Amazonian warrior–it’s relatively easy for viewers to pass over Mary as the middle-aged, level-headed academic in favor of the Solomons’ shenanigans. While Sally is conflicted about being “the woman” once they land, Mary has already spent many years as an earth woman, which means that her past indiscretions are unearthed.

Throughout the show’s run, Mary is the object of ridicule by Dick’s family for her age and her alleged lascivious past. Her mother even tells Dick that she had to crush birth control pills and sneak them in Mary’s cereal every morning because Mary was so promiscuous as a teenager. However, Mary quickly becomes the unofficial matriarch of the Solomon posse as Sally is much too militant and oblivious to the ways of earth to practice responsibility and forethought, aside from cooking and cleaning for her family–her “duties” as a woman. Sally can certainly act the part, but it’s always fleeting and disingenuous. Not quite as stubborn as Dick and not nearly as clueless as Harry, Sally’s downfall is her conflicted approach to womanhood, which actually serves to reframe the face of femininity and its gendered expectations on the show; Sally intermittently embraces and rejects the roles she’s expected to take on as “the woman” of the mission while Mary welcomes all facets of womanhood, including her sexual exploits.

Although Mary is immediately drawn to Dick’s zany genius, she finds him an obnoxious office mate.

When Dick convinces Sally to lose her virginity in season two, he explains, “Dr. Albright dove right in, and it was her first time.” At this, a nearby Tommy bursts out in incredulous laughter; the implication is not only that Mary has had many suitors in her lifetime, but that she’s apparently been on earth a very long time. Later, Mary tells Dick, “When I was a young professor on the fast track, there were things that I did.” When Dick asks what those things were, Mary admits, “The Dean.” While Mary seems mildly regretful, she readily offers this information, and Dick refrains from judging her. Mary, then, serves to guide Sally’s path as a woman while on this planet. Mary assures the long-legged alien that being a virgin is a personal choice that is no one’s business but her own. Because sexuality and old age seem contradictory to the aliens, it seems comically unnatural to Dick’s family that Mary is or was ever the object of sexual arousal.

Because Mary is teased for her old age, especially since she’s no longer viewed as the sexual being she was once known as, it’s at the forefront of particular episodes. In season three, Dick hounds a photographer who once took “tasteful, artistic” nude photos of Mary when she was younger, and he comes to terms with them only after he begins shredding them. He discovers that the shots are beautiful and capture how beautiful Mary was, but he also realizes that she’s still sexually appealing because he loves her; he tells her that she has aged “like a fine wine.” What’s striking about this resolution is that Dick must see the photographs to behold and master this young image of his lover in order to feel secure in his position as her boyfriend. When Mary sees the photos, she comments that she was a “hottie.”

Ironically, Mary’s love for wine renders her immune to the poison placed in her drink by alien-hunters.

While Mary’s love for indulging in all of life’s pleasures is a recurring source of amusement on the show, Mary never denies that she enjoys sex and booze. She even gets drunk with Dick while playing a board game and admits to sleeping with Dick’s nemesis, Dr. Strudwick, a conversation the anthropology professor can’t even recall the following morning. Despite her earth antics, mild by comparison, Mary is the unequivocal voice of reason in a show that features the traditional formula of three kooky men and the woman who spends her time proving that she’s as worthy as they are, despite her status as an empowered woman. Mary is our surrogate in an environment that has little to no handling on the Solomons. We then need Mary in order to navigate our way through the misinformed and sometimes deranged misadventures of the crew.

Mary is the only earthling who finds out that the Solomons are aliens, and Dick even points out their home planet for her.

When the teenage Tommy decides that he’s fed up with high school girls, he begins to pursue Mary, and even requests that she call him the more sophisticated “Tom.” Tommy spends time with Mary because he values her knowledge and wisdom as an older woman, but he eventually caves to Dick’s demands that he back off the woman Dick is “not in love with.” In this case, we see a reversal and a challenging of what we know to be the standard fantasy of most men: to be with young girls. However, Tommy is the crew’s Information Officer, and he seeks earth women who can offer just that: knowledge and maturity. Tommy is a feminist character in his conscious decision to reject vacant, naive beauty in favor of substance. Because Tommy is indeed the oldest alien, he recognizes the value in dating Mary, even if she doesn’t realize the two are dating. In this way, Mary is prized as an older woman rather than demeaned as one.

Tommy and Dick stand off outside Mary’s front door. Tommy says, “For the first time on this planet, I’ve met a woman who appreciates me for what I think.”

Without the balanced mix of Mary’s centered cool and her willingness to participate in the farcical plots of 3rd Rock, we have no anchor securing our spot somewhere between the logical and the absurd. Mary acts as a catalyst for progress and learning within the aliens’ lives, particularly that of Dick, who is irrevocably enlightened by knowing her. It’s because of Mary’s endless array of neuroses–abandonment issues, childhood obesity, dysfunctional family relationships–and codependent relationship with Dick that we come to adore the aliens and also recognize that we may be the aliens instead. Jane Curtin also refuses to be overshadowed by the eccentric comedic presence of John Lithgow, which is no small feat.

When their mission is canceled, Dick tells Mary that she’ll remember him as “a feeling.”

Although Dick is an alien, and therefore a genius and a master of physics, Mary gives Dick a lesson in feelings during the group’s mission, a subject that was thoroughly foreign to him. The High Commander’s decision to extend the mission is a direct result of Mary’s ability to incite human emotion in an otherwise clinical, dismissive Dick–to teach him how to be human. In other words, we can thank Mary Albright for six seasons of intergalactic comedy gold from writers Bonnie and Terry Turner. Shortly after arriving, Dick tells Mary, “I want very much to feel, and I want even more to be felt, and I mean that from the heart of my bottom.”

Jenny Lapekas has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she teaches Composition at Alvernia University in Pennsylvania. Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Wrinkle-Washed: Female Faces in Film Marketing by Lisa Wade at Sociological Images

Calming the Controversy: “After Tiller” Directors Lana Wilson and Martha Shane Discuss the Complexities of Late-Term Abortion by Christopher Campbell at RogerEbert.com

Infographic: Why Don’t Women Directors Win Emmys? by Imran Siddiquee at Miss Representation

Where’s the Diversity? A Look at the Emmy Awards and TV by Jason Low at Lee and Low Books

‘Saturday Night Live’ Adds 6 New Cast Members Which Is Nice. But What’s Wrong w/ This Picture? by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

Jess and Mindy–A Look at the Progression of Female Comedy Characters by Alyssa Rosenberg at Women and Hollywood

Stephen King Calls Out Stanley Kubrick for “Misogynistic” Shining Character by Jill Pantozzi at The Mary Sue

New Reality Show “Modern Dads” is Extremely Boring by Jill Moffett at Bitch Media

How to Crack the Film World’s Glass Ceiling by Kate Sheppard at Mother Jones

Forbes Announces Top Female Earners on Television by Melissa Silverstein and Karensa Cadenas at Women and Hollywood

BULL’S-EYE: Geena Davis Tells Hollywood Where To Stick Its Ageist, Sexist Representations Of Women at Upworthy, via Funny or Die

John Singleton Channels August Wilson – Pens Op-ed On White Directors Helming Black Films by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

8 Ways to Make a Movie About a Female Superhero Happen by Charlie Jane Anders at io9

“Once Upon a Time” Rewrites Fairy Tales–But Misses A Big Opportunity by Hannah Strom at Bitch
Media

Sirens, Succubi and Slut-Shaming: Why Are Women ‘Evil’ Once They Have Sex? by Alex Henderson at feminspire

A Feminist Cook Portrayed in New Movie ‘Haute Cuisine’ by Anne Dulce at The Daily Meal

The 17 Faces Of The Future Of Feminism at Refinery29

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

‘Thérèse’ Explores Twentieth Century Marriage Convictions and the Sexual Paths Of Two Women

Thérèse film poster.

Written by Janyce Denise Glasper

The 2012 film Thérèse touches on the aftereffects of burgeoning sexuality between two women–Thérèse and her sister-in-law, Anne–and focuses on a companionship that was formed when they were young girls.

“Have you thought about it?” Anne asks.

“You mean sleeping with your brother every night?” Thérèse asks back.

“Yes? Doesn’t it scare you?”

“No, I never think about it.”

“You’re lying!”

“No, I swear. Never.”

In this particular scene, the night before the big wedding between two adjoining pinery owners, Anne speaks of sexual intercourse with the vivid curiosity of a lively young woman. Her widened bright eyes and excited mouth speak candidly about scandalous romantic stories and masturbation–the latter a taboo topic among women of twentieth century France. Thérèse sees it nothing more than another trivial duty, another part of a rich union. Cigarette smoking, free thinking Thérèse appears bored with the overall thought, expressing little emotion, little joy. In terms of love, Thérèse affectionately nicknames Anne her “little girlfriend” and the soft, intimately close soon-to-be sisters clasp hands and sleep together–a picture of a long-time bond.

It was always three’s company between Thérèse (Audrey Tautou, center) and the Desqueyroux siblings, Anne (Anaïs Demoustier, right) and Bernard (Gilles Lellouche).

After the quiet wedding, the marriage bed occurs and Thérèse does not relish the occurrence or find satisfaction. When Bernard is lying atop of her still body, he grunts loud and moves awkwardly, selfish in his lovemaking skills. He is all about himself. No affection. No lingering touches that instill ardor. Cold, stoic Thérèse floats inside of an impermeable bubble, mouth closed, blank opened black eyes voided, arms lying limply on his back. She is as rigid as society conviction. Sex is a tedious obligation, not a pleasure.

This disheartening emotional prison that Thérèse is sequestered inside isn’t the kind that’s listed on the New York Times Bestseller List by historical romance novel writers who pen independent women seeking pleasure by graciously giving lovers. Thérèse’s privileged life has become the source of grave unhappiness, of silent depression. Her marriage isn’t a quintessential novel. It’s mundane and slowly killing her, especially with Bernard caring far more for the baby growing inside than Thérèse.

Thérèse (Audrey Tautou) enjoying one of Anne’s letters.

However, Anne’s sensually fluffed letters stimulate Thérèse’s duress. Anne has fallen in love with a roguish man named Jean that incites her vivacious spirit and electrifies naïve frustrations brewing between girlhood and fantasy. Her luscious words bring fruitful splendor to Thérèse, a vicarious longing that also inadvertently fuels Thérèse’s great jealousy. In Bernard, she feels no spark, no fire. In such a strict upper crust rule where women must obey husbands and yield to their every command, Thérèse has ultimately denied wanting those kinds of desires, growing up motherless and shadowing her father’s character, bearing perfect picture of the sophisticated society wife. Anne overtly shares captivating joy of having a man titillate ripening womanhood and this wicked experience is unknown to Thérèse, who greedily reads these letters in private vein, visibly shaken by the depth of Anne’s growing fulfillment.

Thérèse takes part in Anne’s family double crossed meddling, vowing to keep Anne away from her aching desire to marry a Jew. It’s unbearable seeing Anne break and shatter, like fragmented glass breaking in these tormented scenes. She is a pitiable wreck, refusing to eat, her disposition waning to a waxen pallor of imminent heartbreak. When Bernard’s dogs viciously attack her and he does the same straight after, the scene showcases a terrifying parallel between certain men and ferocious animals. Bernard may be gentle at times, but he has a violent side as beastly as a dog’s bite and treats his sister with cruel disdain. And as it turns out, Anne’s beau is too good to be true as well. Jean turns out to be a ruthless cad, a real asshole. This surprises Thérèse. He tells Thérèse in boastful fashion that he never has had an intention of marrying Anne or acquiring the deep tender feelings foolish Anne had so generously penned:

“Anne certainly has shared her life’s passions with me. You know what I’m talking about… the life that awaits her. The life that awaits all women around here. A bleak, provincial life. Proper, conventional, and rigid.”

Should Anne’s desires have remained dormant? Untapped? Are we to bow down to Jean and thank him, though prior he also asks, “Is it forbidden to play for a bit?”

My need to punch Jean became stronger as he continued talking. It didn’t matter what books he read or how intelligent he appeared to Thérèse, who eventually secretly writes to him throughout the film. The fact remains that he intentionally took advantage of Anne’s innocence, sullied her world, and played her like a damned toy. It begins to become hard to choose a side. Do viewers side with Anne’s family who bar and treat her like an asylum patient? Yes, they have valid reasons. Yet it’s sickening how women are not allowed to have the same sexual freedom as men and that if they showcase signs of this, they are relegated to being treated like they have mental incapacity. Sexual feelings and thoughts are wrong. They must be shut out. Even today, women who showcase sexual liberation are labeled horrifically. The other presented question is do we congratulate Jean who stirred a passion that burned so brightly inside Anne? Do we say, hurray to the man who made Anne his intended victim–his target for foreplay? Either way the choices are unfair to Anne. They are for Thérèse, too. They both have to conform to tradition- ignore natural bodily desires and submit to marriage, to a man of family choosing.

Thérèse (Audrey Tautou) often is lost in thought and women in her time were not allowed to think.

The second shown sex scene between Thérèse and Bernard is a disturbing, grossly violent act, occurring some time after the birth of the couple’s daughter. It shows Bernard being further self-seeking and rough. Thérèse has swatted her hand, but he is forceful and initiates a randy monstrous shallowness. She looks perplexed by this turn of events. Now Thérèse does have a friendship with him, a certain kindhearted camaraderie. In certain scenes he is more like a brother than a husband. Yet in this one horrid night, Bernard demonstrates his power and Thérèse has no choice but to succumb to him and her growing downfall to ruin by trying to kill him.

Anne’s fate is adjacent to Thérèse’s. After being mentally and physically imprisoned by her family, Anne’s awakened passions are replaced by civil, respectable duty. Completely subdued and complacent, Anne prepares to marry a kind, dull gentleman that family prefers. The life which has scarred Thérèse will be Anne’s. She has lost whimsical magic and charm. Her eyes are no longer merry and twinkling. Her smiles have lessened. She and Thérèse have both become muted in the course of the film.

Thérèse’s final scene with Anne is a sad one as well. It is apparent that they’ll probably never cross paths again. No more holding hands and sharing secrets. The past of two carefree girls has passed. They are fragmented shells that have dealt with family rejection, male dominance, and having sexual beliefs turned eschew. One cannot help but mourn the loss of their spirited personalities.

Thérèse (Audrey Tautou) and Bernard (Gilles Lellouche) in happier times.

Bernard does give Thérèse the keys to her freedom. He aches as he sees her literally dying before his eyes. Thérèse has lost so much, including rights to see her own child, but by the end, she gains something unexpected.

She has liberty.

Unfortunately, not many women can say the same.

The Ones We Forget: ‘Men At Lunch’

Written by Max Thornton.

“At the height of the Great Depression, eleven ironworkers sit side by side on a steel beam, eating lunch. Central Park stretches out behind them as they rest, boots dangling eight hundred feet over the sidewalk of Fiftieth Street. Just a bunch of regular guys. Just another working day.”

What makes a good photograph?

What is the essence of New York City?

What role do iconic images play in the public consciousness?

What stories can they tell?

These are some of the questions raised by Seán Ó Cualáin’s thoughtful documentary Men At Lunch, which investigates one of the most recognizable American photographs of the twentieth century. At an economical 67 minutes, the film is lean, but far from weightless: this single image is the center from which multiple lines of fascinating inquiry spiral outward. The movie explores each aspect of and in the photo – the metadata of the photograph’s origins, the context of 1930s New York City, the industry of skyscraper building, the economic and social situation of the time, the tragic contemporary resonances in a post-9/11 world, immigrant lives – but takes care to center the people at the heart of it, anonymous though they are.

The practicalities of the photo’s history are dispensed with fairly quickly. The probable identity of the photographer, the current whereabouts of the original negative, and the fact that it was a staged publicity still rather than a naturalistic shot are all mildly interesting, but it’s much more engaging to turn to the question of what the picture means to people in all walks of life.

Source

Ó Cualáin interviews historians who have investigated the photo, street vendors who sell prints of it to tourists, a sculptor who built a large model of it, present-day ironworkers who are inspired by it, and some of the far-flung individuals who are firmly convinced that among the eleven sit one or more of their own relatives. The kaleidoscope of meanings read into this one image could be seen as a microcosm of the United States as a whole, and indeed the world portrayed by the photo exemplifies the best and the worst faces of US society simultaneously.

Lunch atop a Skyscraper first appeared in the New York Herald Tribuneon October 2 1932, when unemployment was at an eye-watering 24%. Nor were the ironworkers, in paid employment far above the city streets, immune to the high cost of a capitalist society: apparently skyscraper developers of the time budgeted for one dead worker per ten floors of building. On the other hand, the picture is almost propaganda in its idealized portrayal of the American dream of the city as melting pot, the aspirational immigrants hard at work to build something lasting and to contribute something tangible to the diverse society of which they have voluntarily become a part.

If the film has a weakness, it would be its elision of the true complexities of the melting pot myth. An honest narrative of immigration to the United States really should make mention of this nation’s foundational genocide of native peoples, as well as the ongoing tensions of anti-immigrant prejudice and the marginalization of hybrid identities.

Am I a man, or am I a muppet?

Aside from this oversight, however, Ó Cualáin has put together a charming, thought-provoking film which finds remarkable depth and power in an over-familiar image, exploring wide-reaching ramifications but never losing sight of its titular men at lunch.

Most striking, perhaps, are the connections made by this photograph and the people it portrays. Contemporary workers see their own faces there. Others are absolutely convinced they see their relatives there, and clearly in some sense they do. The fact that these men are famous – iconic, reproduced, parodied the world over – and yet their identities are unknown exemplifies not only “the great American immigrant story” of a nation at once reverent and forgetful of its roots, but also their particular role as the architects of a skyline. As one interviewee puts it: “They put their lives and their bodies into the buildings, and how strange that they’re the ones we forget.”

Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.He lives near New York now. It’s awesome.

Stan Lee: "We Don’t Have to Knock Ourselves Out Finding a Female"

Written by Robin Hitchcock

In an interview with Toofab, Stan Lee talked about upcoming Marvel Studios projects and answered a question about a female Marvel superhero getting her own movie with: “The thing is, the women like these movies as much as the guys. So we don’t have to knock ourselves out finding a female.” He added, with all the convincing commitment I infuse into my promises to do the dishes next time, “But… we will.”

Stan Lee with Scarlett Johansson

Stan Lee is 90, so I probably should cut him some slack on his grandpa-ly demeanor here. And he’s more of an historical figurehead than a creative power player at Marvel Studios, so maybe I shouldn’t put too much stock into what he says in an interview with a website I’ve never heard of.

But this quotation really melts my lipstick because it’s further proof there will always be excuses to not make movies about women. When women aren’t going to movies about dudes, the filmmakers say, “Oh, well, women aren’t really our target audience.” When women ARE going to movies about dudes, the filmmakers say, “Well, the women like it this way, so why change anything?” They’ve developed this convoluted system whereby the logical answer is always more movies about dudes, and they’ll never let it go.

Women of Marvel by ComfortLove on DeviantArt

It also bothers me that Lee’s “knock ourselves out” phrasing makes finding a woman superhero to make a movie about sound like a Herculean task, even though Marvel has no shortage of female characters to work with. Lee himself just casually mentioned the Black Widow as a likely candidate for her own movie, and no one had to be knocked out by that search, because she was THE CENTRAL CHARACTER of a movie made LAST YEAR which made ONE AND A HALF BILLION DOLLARS. Maybe he got knocked out by Captain Obvious’s Clue Stick?

In happier news, The Mary Sue reports Marvel is working on a Peggy Carter TV Series. I hope they have plenty of neurologists on standby to help the television development staff monitor their concussions.

Robin Hitchcock is an American writer living in Cape Town who is not holding her breath for a movie about She-Hulk, but wouldn’t that be awesome?

Why ‘The Legend of Korra’ is (Still) a Feminist’s Headache

The Legend of Korra Book 2 promotional poster.

Written by Erin Tatum.

Let me start by saying that I love Avatar: The Last Airbender. I’ve watched it since its original run in 2005 and I continue to re-watch it. The themes are relatable and they always will be. Yes, it’s a kids’ show, but it has genuine appeal across all ages, and not in the same tongue-in-cheek way as Adventure Time or My Little Pony. Set in a world where people can “bend” (control and/or manipulate) the elements–water, earth, fire, and air–the series borrows heavily from martial arts and eastern spirituality. We follow the long lost Avatar, Aang, as he and his friends attempt to restore peace after a hundred-year world war. The animation is gorgeous and the action scenes are impeccably well choreographed. Most of all, the narrative and characterization are emotionally balanced and unexpectedly poignant given its target demographic.

Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Critics noted that A:TLA was unique for the children’s genre in its incorporation of serious romantic themes. Most of the characters have long-term love interests and complex moral or emotional turmoil relating to their relationships, rendering them much more nuanced. This was a radical departure from the usual crush fluff, probably due in part to the fact that the characters were in a perpetual war zone. The writers did a phenomenal job of devoting proper attention to the military conflict while providing the audience just enough fodder to keep us invested in the characters’ personal dynamics. Ultimately, the war always superseded romantic angst in importance.

Korra on her way to steal yo man.

In theory, The Legend of Korra initially seemed full of potential. A strong female protagonist! A woman of color! A woman who could easily be reinterpreted as queerly coded! Unfortunately, the execution is less than stellar. Korra and her friends are 17-20, as opposed to the 12-17 age range of the A:TLA cast. The writers took advantage of the age jump to make the sequel series the Y7 equivalent of Hotter and Sexier, which apparently means piling on the hormones. Whereas in A:TLA, relationship tensions had a slight influence on the action, the conflict in The Legend of Korra serves as mere white noise to the Love Drama of the Week. I almost feel like I shouldn’t bother explaining the alleged overarching premise because it frankly doesn’t matter. A civil war is brewing between benders and non-benders and Korra (the reincarnation of Aang) must again fight to restore balance. While this could have been a fantastic commentary on class struggle, what’s really important is who Korra dates! Accordingly, the plot is consistently suffocated by a love square so forced and melodramatic that I was honestly embarrassed that this was considered quality enough to inherit the legacy of the franchise.

The Legend of Pheromones: Mako and Asami (front) with Korra and Bolin (back).

Long story short, Korra finds herself torn between the affections of two brothers, geeky Bolin and brooding Mako. That sound you hear is me slamming my head against my desk. Korra pines after Mako, who represents a botched attempt to recapture the popularity of Zuko, resident bad boy and puberty catalyst of the A:TLA universe. Mako gets a girlfriend, Asami, who is actually really nice and arguably more sympathetic than Korra, but we are supposed to irrationally hate her because she’s blocking the Official Couple. Sexism ensues. Mako is a douchebag who cheats on Asami by kissing Korra and never taking accountability for it or apologizing to Asami and Bolin. Korra saves the city via a last-minute deus ex machina and Mako tells her he loves her. Essentially, we spend 10 episodes watching the beautiful love story of two emotionally unavailable teenagers with anger issues passive aggressively refusing to date each other until they do. Cool.

Bolin accurately captures my reaction to Mako and Korra’s brief PDA.

With this in mind, I was reticent to say the least about giving the second season a try. Apologists insisted that the choppy quality was attributable to the fact that The Legend of Korra was originally planned to be a standalone miniseries, so I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. It’s not that Friday’s premiere was necessarily worse, it’s just that the characters continue to be bogged down by needing overt romantic storylines to validate any narrative movement. Six months have passed and more trouble is on the horizon. Korra needs to decide whether or not to go to the South Pole to advance her Avatar training. Korra and Mako have a lot of arguments about whether or not he is being supportive enough because she’s confused and he won’t make a decision for her. Ninety percent of their interaction is arguing. If there’s anything young fans want, it’s to excitedly pair up with your crush and then immediately skip to the part where you’re jaded and irritated with each other.

Luckily for Korra, she has plenty of other men eager to tell her what to do. Her mentor, her dad, and her uncle fight about what’s best for her the entire episode while Korra huffs and pouts. This is supposed to make her more sympathetic by again painting her as an average (gifted) girl who has her precociously cunning intuitions stifled by myopic adults who unfairly underestimate her. I am less inclined to believe this since she never seems to do anything other than either begrudgingly following orders or deliberately doing the opposite and claiming it’s her idea because she’s pathologically incapable of admitting she can’t take anyone’s advice. She has had virtually zero character growth since the pilot, which is a real travesty in light of the extensive personal evolution in A:TLA. I guess Mako came along and made her Distracted by the Sexy.

Korra uses firebending to stop a Spirit from attacking the town.

Korra has a new enemy in the form of angry spirits. The combat scenes are, as usual, visually stunning. I’m in this for the Scenery Porn. True to form, Korra punches her way through everything, choosing to bypass more meticulous styles of bending in favor of brute strength. The problem with LOK is that Korra’s stubbornness and aggression are marketed as female empowerment in that they seem to be the self-aware antithesis to traditional femininity. Korra even pigeonholed Asami early on as prim and proper because she was a girly girl. Why is femininity still considered the enemy or an embarrassing relic to move past? Masculinized traits on their own don’t automatically equal a liberated female protagonist. Reversing the stereotype doesn’t necessarily make the resulting portrayal a positive one. Having a strong point of view is all well and good, but you should have a vague grasp of your identity. We still have no idea who Korra is and it’s the second season. She’s actually quite a disappointing cliché if you think about it. She can only understand herself and her potential for progression through her relationship with Mako. The various conflicts and the bending are simply bells and whistles to distract from the fact that she still feels the need to define herself through a man.

Asami faces down an intimidating businessman.

Asami is kicking ass and taking names as the new head of her father’s company. She and Bolin close a business deal together and it’s awesome. I want to be excited, I really do. Alas, I’m sure she’ll only reappear to tease romantic subtext between her and Bolin. The scene came off as a bit forced and I think the writers wanted to throw Asami in briefly to respond to the criticism that she wouldn’t have a shelf life after the love triangle. I hope she stays a regular. Also, Mako is now a motorcycle cop, despite the series being very clearly set in the Jazz age. Just in case you needed more confirmation that he’s the golden boy. Mako’s irresistible charisma allows him to transcend the pace of human innovation! Maybe he should use his charm to inspire someone to cure cancer 40 years sooner.

Eska sizes up Bolin.

After getting his heart stomped all over by Korra, Bolin had to be given a new love interest fast or risk losing all relevance to the LOK universe. Seeing that he was relegated to one-dimensional comic relief to eliminate him as a threat to precious Mako for Korra, it’s fitting that Bolin’s girlfriend is… one-dimensional comic relief. Korra’s nearly identical twin cousins, Desna and Eska (boy and girl respectively), come to town and Bolin is instantly taken by the beauty of both twins, although he quickly changes his tune when he realizes that Desna is a guy. Eska’s deadpan, monotone delivery reminded me of Aubrey Plaza and then I saw that Plaza actually does voice Eska, so that’s badass. Eska instantly takes a shining to Bolin’s flirting and suddenly they’re “dating” within a few lines of dialogue. Genuine development is reserved for main characters, which Bolin has apparently been demoted from indefinitely.

Eska breaks up the hug between Bolin and Korra (source).

Many viewers have already raised concerns that Bolin and Eska’s relationship is abusive and claim that fangirls are overlooking Eska’s problematic behavior. In particular, they cite the moment towards the end of the episode where Eska uses waterbending to forcibly separate Bolin and Korra when he tries to hug her and then demands an explanation. Eska’s oddly formal way of speaking and morose goth girl personality, once literally coupled with Bolin’s hapless Idiot Hero shtick, indicates that their dynamic exists almost solely to be played for laughs. I’m not sure if it’s actually funny yet because it screams try hard. Either way, Eska has risen to fandom darling overnight. Funny how traits that would’ve been red flags for assholes where men are concerned translate into quirky and adorable qualities for girls to have. It might be too early in Bolin and Eska’s supposed relationship to determine concrete abusive tendencies, but possessiveness is never cute or attractive, regardless of your gender. You know that if it had been Mako blocking Korra from hugging Bolin, fandom would be in an uproar. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl really is catnap to young audiences, especially if you put her in sheep’s (or rather, goth’s) clothing.

Jinora gazes at a statue of Aang.

I’m the most intrigued by the plot given the least attention. This episode foreshadowed Aang’s granddaughter, Jinora, having special connections to the Spirit World. She is too young to be given a boyfriend yet, so I have faith that she might be one female character to grow and develop as an individual, but only by virtue of prepubescence. Sigh.

It’s extremely frustrating because anyone who has seen A:TLA knows what Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko (the creators of A:TLA and LOK) are capable of. Sure, the romance in A:TLA was enjoyable, but LOK pushes it to soap opera extremes. They seem to be hooked on the thrill of ship wars to the point where it perputually eclipses everything else in LOK. There are already rumblings of a Bolin-centered love triangle with Asami and Eska. Just stop using nonsensical romantic angst to fill narrative space. Not only is reliance on triangles a very amateur writing move, but it signals that you are so uninspired by your own characters that the most compelling thing you could come up with for them to do is fight over each other. That’s stale and frankly depressing.

Lastly, stop leaving Korra in the lurch. One of the last exchanges in the episode gave us this little steaming turd of a gem:

Korra: It’s hard being the Avatar.

Mako: It’s harder being the Avatar’s boyfriend.

(cue forced chuckling and hug)

A dramatic reenactment of my response to the above dialogue.

Is there such a thing as sexism bending? Because it should be certified as a fundamental element of the LOK universe.

The Legend of Korra should be about Korra’s journey. It’s not The Legend of Mako and Associates. Mako and the others can help Korra, but they don’t need to compulsively define her every step of the way. Let her find herself and stumble a bit on her own. I guarantee that she won’t scrape her knees too badly if Mako isn’t there to hold her hand. Korra is strong, so give her a little backbone. The Avatar deserves more than just being somebody’s girlfriend.

Why We Need More Women Filmmakers: A Review of ‘Legend of the Red Reaper’

Movie still from Legend of the Red Reaper

This is a guest post by Aphrodite Kocięda.

When actress Tara Cardinal initially approached me and asked if I could write a review for her new film, Legend of the Red Reaper, I was a bit hesitant. I have never really been fond of films that are hyper-masculine and assume that they’re automatically progressive because they cast one woman as a lead in a “strong” position without changing the overall framework. In fact, many films replace their protagonist men with women who are doing the exact same hyper-masculine shit and assume they should automatically get brownie points for casting a vagina.

However, I was thoroughly surprised by Legend of the Red Reaper because Cardinal’s character, Aella, broke through stereotypical representations of women in action films. In fact, I found myself enamored with Aella and her ability to transform trite traits associated with strength into something progressive. She wasn’t afraid to be “feminine” and “masculine” simultaneously. Aella is not hypersexualized or deemed “incompetent” because she is a woman. She is a multi-dimensional, complex character who transcends the normative ideas of femininity and masculinity.

Tara Cardinal as Aella in Legend of the Red Reaper

Legend of the Red Reaper is a fantasy/action film that centers on the tensions between demons, humans, reapers, and witches. Reapers are half human and half demon and are protectors of humans. Cardinal’s character, Aella, plays a reaper who is destined to save the human race, and her journey is complicated by love, familial conflict, and identity issues. Cardinal is both the director and producer of the film which might explain why Aella’s character is so progressive. Additionally, Cardinal does all of her own stunt and sword work.

Aella doesn’t fit into any of the cliché tropes for women that are routinely reproduced in mainstream films. For example, Aella is in love with a man named Eris who is a human—someone who she could never be with because she is a reaper. A young townswoman named Indira attempts to gain the attention of Eris and wants to marry him. Aella, however, does not exact revenge upon Indira. In fact, at one point, Aella saves Indira’s life. Aella actually gives up Eris so that he can marry Indira. This was very different from the clichéd narratives centering on women’s relationships in other mainstream films where women fight and focus all of their energy on ruining each others’ lives. Aella respectfully steps out of the picture without any conflict.

Movie still from Legend of the Red Reaper

Aella’s battle scenes also transcend stereotypical representations. During one scene in particular, Aella fights off more than four men with her sword in one hand while holding a crying baby in the other. I have N-E-V-E-R seen this before. All too often, film writers and producers assume that in order to showcase women in masculine positions, they must strip women of any semblance of womanhood, which is problematic. Therefore, I thought it was a smart move on behalf of Cardinal to show this. Unlike other films that feature women in lead fighting roles, Aella was not sexualized, nor was she attempting to emulate a man.

For me, this is what art and film are supposed to be like. Oftentimes films can reproduce patriarchal values that make it that much more difficult for women to see a good film. Women are not granted the privilege of imagining themselves in roles that transcend patriarchy and white supremacy. All too often women are cast as one-dimensional background nameless beings, or topless random women who are mere accessories to a multidimensional man. Legend of the Red Reaper allowed me to escape my reality and provided me with a chance to finally imagine a narrative beyond the confines of my social reality. As bell hooks says, “…we do not need more art to give us shit. Art should and can be the place where we are given an alternative, a redemptive vision.”

Aph Kocięda is a graduate student at the University of South Florida in Communication. She also holds a B.A. in Women’s and Gender Studies. You can find Aph on Vegan Feminist Network.

Father Worship and the ‘Bad Fans’ of ‘Breaking Bad’

Breaking Bad promo still.

Written by Leigh Kolb

Spoilers ahead (through “Ozymandias”)

“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / Stand in the desert. … And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: / Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'”

– “Ozymandias,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

In an analysis of the Sept. 15 episode of Breaking Bad (“Ozymandias”), Emily Nussbaum points out that she thinks Todd “looked very much like the prototypical Bad Fan of Breaking Bad: he arrived late in the story, and he saw Walt purely as a kick-ass genius, worthy of worship.” While his worship of Walt has been clear since Todd arrived on the scene, his continued worship of Walt is what makes him–and the “Bad Fans” he resembles–stand out. Ultimately, there is something fundamentally patriarchal about this kind of father worship, when we gravitate toward and are obsessed with the father figure.

After Sunday’s episode, critic Matt Zoller Seitz took to Twitter to observe

Todd and Bad Fans have that in common: they see Walt as a father figure, worthy of forgiveness and blind worship. He’s Walter White. He’s Heisenberg. He’s a bad-ass who really just has done everything for his (unappreciative!) family.

Jesse, Todd and Walt.

Walt’s children–biological and surrogate–all represent the different types of Breaking Bad fans.

Jesse: a lot of eye-rolling at the beginning, mistrusting yet comforted by Walt’s fatherly role, pulled in to Walt’s world fully, wracked with conflicting feelings, turns against Walt after he kills another father figure, Mike. Yet he is now, against his will, chained back into Walt’s world. This fan didn’t ever really like Walt, but went through phases of loving him and wanting him to be the man she needed in her life. She is heartbroken, but is still stuck deep in the action.

Todd: doting, dumb, reveres Walt. Ignores “dead kids.” See above, in re: the Bad Fan. This fan thinks everything that Walt does is for a good cause, or it’s someone else’s fault if bad things happen. This fan is almost definitely a terrible person.

Walt, Jr. (who will probably go by Flynn forever now): shocked, desperately clinging to hope that everything will be fine, tries to blame Skyler, can’t believe that Walt could have committed those crimes–until Walt lashes out in front of him. Then Junior calls 911. This fan thinks the best of Walt, even though she knows better. By the end of “Ozymandias,” however, she is done with Walt’s shit.

Holly: clueless, confused, a pawn, terrified of Walt’s next move. This fan needs someone to explain to her what happens after each episode. She feels emotionally manipulated.

Walt and his children, who we see suffer because of his actions.

These characters’ relationships with Walt highlight his devolution into something worse than Heisenberg. He lies, kills, plots against and kidnaps. He’s abusive. He’s consumed with his perceived power and greed. How we respond to him, though, is indicative of something larger in our society–a male-centric tendency to search for and cling to a father figure.

It’s not easy to hate a hero. The emotional response we have to characters tells us a great deal about ourselves, and I think for many of us, we watch Walt and want him to be someone he’s not, seeing glimmers of humanity in someone who is increasingly monstrous. Like Jesse, we know. We know how evil Walt is. But we can’t get away.

Jesse, held captive by Todd.

After “Ozymandias” aired (an episode which, by the way, is currently rated 10/10 by over 17,000 reviewers on IMDb), the Todds of the Internet scurried to Walt’s defense. Clearly, Walt is doing everything at this point to ensure that Skyler is seen as innocent, right? That phone call?

When Walt calls Skyler, he rants at her, telling her she’s ungrateful, and always “whining and complaining,” “dragging” him “down.” He calls her a “stupid bitch” and hangs up on her.

His entire monologue could have been lifted from the pages of reddit, or a Facebook page dedicated to hating Skyler White. (During the phone call, my husband smirked and said, “He’s basically saying everything that people say about Skyler–and he’s an abusive egomaniac,” pointing out the genius in such commentary.)

Nussbaum says,

“But what was truly fascinating about that phone call was that if it was trolling the Bad Fan, it was also trolling me: the sort of feminist-minded sucker who took the speech at face value, for nearly an hour, until I suddenly realized, in a flash of clarity, that it was a fake-out for the police. (Skyler realized long before I did.)”

Zoller Seitz, however, thinks that Walt was acting on “impulse,” and that the phone call was “instinctive.” He asserts that Walt was “acting in tandem with Heisenberg” in this scene, doing something “chaotic and frightening, but ultimately good.”

Walt, like Sisyphus (or a dung beetle), trying desperately to get somewhere. He’s almost pitiful again, like his underwear-clad beginnings. But he’s not.

There is clearly more at work here than Walt simply enacting a plan to exonerate Skyler or Walt just lashing out against his wife. Zoller Seitz’s multifaceted analysis of the scene is spot on, and doesn’t give Walt more credit than he deserves. (Zoller Seitz also used Twitter to take down the idea that Walt is some pure “badass genius antihero” who was just acting to protect Skyler.)

That reading–that Walt is some kind of benevolent dictator–inspires the #TeamWalt hashtag on Twitter. Walt’s motivations, intentions and actions are often unclear yet calculated. However, whenever we weigh his actions (that could keep his immediate family safe) against his words, we cannot be on #TeamWalt, hanging out with the fan-boy Todds. We can’t.

At the beginning of “Ozymandias,” Walt orders the neo-Nazis to kill Jesse. Walt sees his life, doomed and destroyed. As they drag Jesse away, Walt growls, “Wait,” and says to him:

“I watched Jane die. I was there. And I watched her die. I watched her overdose and choke to death. I could have saved her. But I didn’t.”

Our faces are pinched, our stomachs turn. We are horrified at Walt’s pride in this admission, and we remember that at that point in the series, we were probably still rooting for Walt. We are also disgusted with ourselves. The fact that we can see humanity in Walt isn’t wrong–that’s good writing. To stubbornly fixate on his heroism, though, is just being blind.

Breaking Bad: just like Twilight.

The look on Jesse’s face–broken and empty–reflects how we (should) feel. And just as his turmoil isn’t yet over, neither is ours. There are two more legs to the journey, two “legs of stone” to finish telling us the story of the fallen king and the decaying waste he’s left behind. If the season thus far has taught us to expect anything, it’s this: brilliant torture through perfect storytelling. We’re scared and in crisis over what to expect. We’re coming to terms with the fact that this father figure is not worthy of worship. The ride is almost over.

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Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri. She hopes that before she retires, “Breaking Bad as Literature” is standard college fare.