Violence – Bitch Flicks

Let’s Talk About the Children: War and the Loss of Innocence on ‘Game of Thrones’

Children have always figured prominently in ‘Game of Thrones,’ but their presence seems especially meaningful this [fourth] season, as we get a clearer glimpse of the war’s effect on bystanders, people not entrenched in political intrigue and behind-the-scenes strategizing.

This guest post written by Amy Woolsey originally appeared at Wicked Stupid Plotless and appears now as part of our theme week on Game of Thrones. It is on the fourth season of the television series and is cross-posted with permission.

When watching Game of Thrones, HBO’s contentious, wildly popular fantasy series, it’s easy to get caught up in the Big Moments, the ones that light up social media and generate a week’s worth of think pieces: Ned Stark’s beheading; the Battle of Blackwater; the Red Wedding; so many deaths. But the show isn’t all about shock and awe. In fact, some of the best, most memorable moments this [fourth] season have been the quiet ones, often involving nothing more than characters talking. There’s the circuitous beetle-crushing anecdote that Tyrion tells Jaime in “The Mountain and the Viper,” delivered with tortured intensity by Peter Dinklage, just before the climactic, explosive duel scene. Daenerys’s flirtation with Daario in “Mockingbird.” Any scene between Missandei and Grey Worm, whose tender relationship is perhaps the show’s most welcome addition to George R.R. Martin’s novels.

There’s a reason why, even in a season teeming with game-changing, water-cooler-ready incidents, “First of His Name” remains my favorite episode. Although relatively uneventful, it contains a wealth of perfect little moments that might seem inconsequential on the surface, but actually have profound implications for the characters and their world. Take, for instance, the scene where Podrick Payne confesses to Brienne, “I killed a man.” It’s a simple, four-word line, but for a character that had previously functioned as little more than comic relief, it constitutes a miniature, heartbreaking revelation. Pod may be hopelessly earnest and awkward, but he’s far from the naïve simpleton we and Brienne thought he was; despite his lack of formal training and experience, he’s just as capable of taking a person’s life as a knight of the Kingsguard.

At its heart, season four is a narrative of disillusionment, watching as each character is deprived of his or her innocence. In the premiere, Arya Stark, not yet a teenager, sticks her newly reclaimed Needle into Polliver’s throat to avenge her friend, Lommy Greenhands. A contemptuous smirk lingers on her face even as her victim chokes to death on his own blood, yet whatever catharsis this death brings is only temporary. Arya doesn’t hesitate to revel in her victory; instead, she simply wipes her sword clean and continues on her journey with the Hound. In an interview, Maisie Williams says that Arya is “being eaten from the inside out… She’s got a hole in her heart. She fills it with all these eyes that she’s going to shut forever, and she’s just turning black from the inside out.” Ultimately, killing Polliver is not the act of a girl obtaining justice for her fallen friend; it’s the act of a girl who has lost – or is in the process of losing – her soul. A deliberate, cold-blooded murder, devoid of feeling, performed with matter-of-fact calmness. With this, Arya has officially been indoctrinated into the culture of violence that reigns over Westeros.

This season has received criticism in some corners for its abundant, almost gleeful use of graphic violence, especially against women. On one hand, I don’t blame anyone who’d rather not spend his or her nights watching people’s heads being crushed or chopped off, and the violence can be occasionally excessive or poorly executed (I complained about a certain scene with Cersei and Jaime as much as the next person). At the same time, though, a lot of the criticism strikes me as overly simplistic. As George R.R. Martin himself said, Westeros is “no darker nor more depraved than our own world,” and omitting or downplaying the violence would be a betrayal of the series’ intention, which is to present the past in all its true horror, an alternative to the glorified, sanitized version we usually see in fantasy stories. If it’s hard to tolerate at times, that’s because it’s effective. Fictional violence should be hard to tolerate. It’s saying something that even in an era when seemingly half the shows on network TV feature serial killers, the carnage in Game of Thrones is still genuinely shocking and gruesome.

While the show undoubtedly does employ violence as a form of spectacle (is it even possible to avoid that in a visual medium?), I don’t think it has, as Sonia Saraiya puts it, “gotten in the way of Thrones’ fundamental truth… a lens that offers not just brutality, but also the assiduous follow-through of healing, grieving, and surviving.” If anything, this season has been all about the follow-through, the way war can invade even the most remote areas of the world and tear apart not only communities and families but also individuals, forever transforming the lives of those it touches. It’s never explicitly stated, but you can detect evidence of war’s devastation, of people struggling to cope with their scars, in snippets of dialogue like Pod’s and in character arcs like Arya’s – again, the little things. Trauma, the show contends, involves more than mangled bodies and troubled minds; it’s a process of moral erosion, the gradual disintegration of personal values in the face of a brutal, uncaring reality. Violence, like power, corrupts.

“Everywhere in the world, they hurt little girls.” Cersei’s blunt response to Oberyn, who assures her that “we don’t hurt little girls in Dorne,” represents a moment of uncharacteristic sincerity for the Lannister queen as well as an unexpected reminder to the audience that, despite her powerful, confident veneer, she is broken inside. Unbeknownst to her companion, Cersei has been subjected to repeated sexual assault throughout her life, first at the hands of Robert Baratheon, her husband, and then Jaime, her brother and paramour (as much as I wish we could pretend it didn’t, for all intents and purposes, the scene in the Sept happened and can’t be ignored). Perhaps more than anyone else, she understands the key to survival in Westeros, which essentially amounts to a willingness to use and be used by others whenever necessary, to discard your humanity for the sake of self-preservation. As Oberyn discovers too late, this world isn’t exactly kind to those motivated by passion and noble ideals.

Other characters are slowly starting to comprehend this fact. Daenerys began season four as the self-proclaimed Breaker of Chains, a benevolent ruler determined to free the slaves of the cities she defeats. It’s becoming more and more apparent, however, that conquering is not the same as leading, as she resorts to increasingly harsh methods in an effort to maintain power over her subjects; the Daenerys that liberated the Unsullied would be appalled by the Daenerys that ordered the execution of 163 people and called it “justice.” The last time we saw Sansa, she was walking down a staircase in the Vale, dressed in an elegantly low-cut gown and bathed in angelic white light. It’s treated as a triumphant moment, and in some ways, it is: Sansa Stark, the girl who once swooned over fanciful tales of castles and chivalrous princes, all grown up, no longer a timid victim. But then, you remember what brought her here – a barrage of physical, emotional and psychological abuse inflicted by the boy she used to idolize, among others – and the moment becomes as ethereal as the light in the background, the triumph an illusion. She may not be helpless, but she’s still a victim, just another pawn in a system governed by forces beyond her or anyone’s control.

Not coincidentally, the season [four] finale, airing tonight, is titled “The Children.” Children have always figured prominently in Game of Thrones, but their presence seems especially meaningful this season, as we get a clearer glimpse of the war’s effect on bystanders, people not entrenched in political intrigue and behind-the-scenes strategizing. As it turns out, most children in Westeros either wind up dead, like the slaves nailed along the road to Meereen and Elia Martell’s infants, murdered by the Mountain, or turn into killers themselves.

“The Watchers on the Wall” puts a kid right in the middle of the fighting, contrasting the surrounding bloodshed with shots of Olly, a boy whose parents had been slaughtered in a wilding raid, cowering in a corner. For a while, it seems as though Olly is being framed as a symbol of innocence, a saint amongst monsters, but in a twist that diverges from the source material, he shoots and kills Ygritte, partly in an effort to aid Jon and partly as retribution for his father. The death itself isn’t what’s significant so much as Olly’s smile: proud, not a flicker of visible remorse. There’s something chilling about it – the realization that even at such a young age, Olly has already joined and helped perpetuate the cycle of violence and revenge that has endured throughout the history of Westeros, passed from generation to generation.

In truth, there are no children in this world, at least not in our sense of the term. Growing up here means living long enough to become hardened and wear your cynicism like armor. When it comes to the game of thrones, no one is safe or innocent, not even children.

Amy Woolsey is a writer living in northern Virginia. Since graduating from George Mason University, she has interned at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History and contributed freelance articles to The Week. In her free time, she consumes, discusses, and generally obsesses over pop culture. You can follow her on Twitter and Tumblr, and she keeps a personal blog that is updated irregularly. She has previously written about The Bling Ring and Phoenix for Bitch Flicks.

Let’s All Calm Down for a Minute About ‘The Hateful Eight’: Analyzing the Leading Lady of a Modern Western

In an action movie, violence is due to befall all characters. Is violence against any female character inherently woman-hating, inherently misogynist? … It’s possible that subconscious sexism makes people quick to see her as a victim, and then criticism of the trope of women as victims may be getting in the way of seeing the agency and complexity of a character like Daisy Domergue.

This guest post is written by Sophie Besl.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape, sexual assault and graphic violence] | Spoilers ahead.

When the only female character in Quentin Tarantino’s new film, The Hateful Eight, appeared on promotional materials, and eventually onscreen, with a black eye and chained to a male character, the hair on everyone’s backs was already up. A Tarantino fan and writer I admire went so far as to post on Facebook, “…What I saw tonight in 70 millimeter was a woman-hating piece of trash.”

In this analysis, I ask viewers and readers to take a new perspective. In an action movie, violence is due to befall all characters. Is violence against any female character inherently woman-hating, inherently misogynist?

The Hateful Eight Is a Western.
This male-centric genre, like many others, is guilty of shackling a limited number of women into stereotypical roles such as: a) emotional, submissive frontier wives completely at the mercy of men’s decisions, b) hyper-sexualized sex workers, or c) exoticized depictions of Native and Indigenous women. Of course, there are still standout roles for women (Madeline Kahn in Blazing Saddles, Katharine Ross in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the role of Mattie in True Grit), but these roles are difficult to etch out. I would like to submit that Daisy Domergue, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh, is one of these strong roles. Tarantino gets as close as he can to putting a woman in a leading role (which he has shown is his preference in Jackie Brown, Kill Bill, Death Proof, and Inglourious Basterds).

The primary message of The Hateful Eight is about the Civil War and what it meant for America and the men, white and Black, who fought it. Thus, the main characters fought in the war. While a small number of women disguised themselves as men and fought, the overwhelming majority of veterans were men. So since the main characters had to be veterans, these were male, but Tarantino made the “next available” lead character female. Domergue is essentially the third lead, the highest level available that is historically accurate for a woman, given Tarantino’s primary goal exploring race relations (her Golden Globe nomination is for supporting actor, but it’s okay, those decisions are not a science!).

Play the Movie in Your Mind with a Male Actor in the Role.
In my opinion, one test of whether a character is feminist or not is if you ask, “Does this character’s gender play any part in the character’s actions, fate, or treatment?” If the answer is “no” or “not really, not essentially,” then that is a very feminist character. Insert a male actor in place of Jennifer Jason Leigh. Think about it — the plot would play out exactly the same. Not only that, but almost no lines of dialogue would need to be changed. “This woman” would be replaced with “this man,” “sister” with “brother,” etc. The only outlier is the dreaded “b” word, but Tarantino has plenty of colorful insults for all manner of characters.

Domergue Is Never Viewed in a Sexual or Objectifying Way.
This is rooted one of my favorite things about Tarantino as a filmmaker. In a world riddled with rape, the last thing we need is gratuitous, titillating visuals, filmed from a male point of view, of sexual violence against women.¹ The closest Tarantino ever comes to this is with the Bride² — but the sexual violence is implied not shown³ — and Death Proof, where the revenge equally or far outweighs the initial gender-based homicide. On the flip side, Tarantino has no problem showing rape and sexual assault against men onscreen, such as in Pulp Fiction and The Hateful Eight.

Shosanna in Inglourious Basterds is one of the best examples of Tarantino writing for women as if they do not live in danger of sexual violence from men. This suspension of disbelief onscreen is refreshing and empowering for viewers, such as me as a woman who does somewhat live in daily fear of sexual violence. Shosanna repeatedly, assertively turns down advances from Zoller quite at her own peril throughout the entire film. Her fearlessness is astounding, and respected. Here are the ways that Domergue is written in similarly feminist ways:

[Spoilers follow.]
• She is walked into a log cabin in the middle-of-nowhere Wyoming to spend the night with 9 or 10 men, one of whom she is chained to, and it never seems to the viewer that she might be in danger, of sexual violence or even significant other harm.
• There is no implication that her captor has raped or sexually assaulted her.
• Her looks are never commented upon, neither that she is pretty nor looking haggard. The comment-ability of her appearance intensifies over time based on the chaos that occurs inside the cabin, yet no one comments. This is impossibly refreshing and almost unheard of for women in film. Even the looks of the strongest women characters in other Westerns are usually remarked upon or up for discussion among the men.
• Domergue is not a love interest of any of the characters.*
• Men are willing to risk their lives to save Domergue due to familial or gang ties, not out of love, affection, or sexually driven motives.*
• The camera never rests on her in an objectifying or gazing way that is different than the other characters or unique to her as a woman.

*Note: Major Marquis Warren does imply this in one line of dialogue, but it is quickly dismissed. Compared to most films where men only act out of love for women and sex is a major motivator, this is still a major step in terms of feminist film.

Okay Yes, We’ll Talk about the Violence.
I’m no fool — I’m not going to pretend that it’s all butterflies and rainbows for Domergue in The Hateful Eight. As Leigh told The Daily Beast, she took a photo of herself and sent it to her mom when her only makeup was a black eye and a few scratches and bruises and said, “This is as good as it’s going to get. This is the beauty shot from the movie. … Then it just got more and more insane as it goes on.”

My initial question was: Is any violence against a woman inherently misogynist? Leigh said in an interview:

“I think it’s actually more of a sexist response [to say that]… I think it’s easy to have a sexist response. ‘Hitting a woman? Sexist.’ It’s a natural go-to place for people. But [Tarantino]’s actually taking the sexism out of it.”

Another argument about the violence is that Domergue has almost full agency over it. She has been arrested by an officer of the court, and he has made it clear what the consequences are for what actions. She purposely violates his rules, knowing what the consequences will be, and chooses the risks of receiving an elbow to the face for getting in some fantastic jabs at Kurt Russell’s character John Ruth, such as that his intelligence may have suffered from taking a high dive into a low well.

Also, while many would argue that Domergue gets the worst of the violence, mostly marked by her lack of wiping blood off of her face, it should be noted that part of the lead protagonist Major Warren’s genitals are separated from his body by a gunshot wound, an injury he viscerally suffers from until the end of the movie, so it’s not like Tarantino spares his lead male actors.

She Kills Her Captor.
While: a) being chained to Ruth, b) Ruth is poisoned and thus vomiting on her, and c) Ruth is still managing to beat her up, Domergue manages to grab his gun and blow him away. Any one of the “hateful eight” could have easily killed Ruth plot-wise, but Tarantino gives this murder to Domergue, who deserves it and has truly earned it. (Note: She also deftly and matter-of-factly saws his arm — which she’s still handcuffed to — off of his corpse to facilitate her mobility later that night.)

The Fates of Four Men Rest on Her in the End.
Speaking of her being a total badass, after Jody’s murder, she goes from being the #2 to the #1 leader of one of the most dangerous gangs in the land. In the final act of the film, she just about single-handedly negotiates the lives (and deaths) of the two protagonists and her two remaining gang members. She is unarmed, and yet commands full power over the four men’s actions and decisions until the very last moment. Her brilliance —“She’s very, very smart,” Leigh tells The Daily Beast — causes her to outshine all of the other characters and almost “win.” “…She’s a leader. And she’s tough. And she’s hateful and a survivor and scrappy,” says Leigh in an interview with Variety, all traits that give Domergue power in the frenetic, desperate situation in which all the characters find themselves.

The Death Scene.
This is arguably the most problematic scene of all. Let’s present what I’m up against before I present my counterpoint. Matt Zoller Seitz at RogerEbert.com writes:

“The film’s relentless and often comical violence against Daisy never feels truly earned. Saying, ‘Well, they’re all outlaws, including her, and that’s just how women were treated back then’ feels like an awfully thin defense when you hear audiences whooping it up each time Russell punches Leigh in the face, and it dissipates during the final scene, which lingers on Daisy’s death with near-pornographic fascination. In a movie filled with selfish, deceptive and murderous characters, hers is the only demise that is not just observed, but celebrated.”

Well this is where I’m going to go way out on a limb and repeat what Leigh herself (the woman who had to sit around in 30 degrees in the fake blood and brains, and pretend to be hung) said, “I think it’s actually more of a sexist response [to say that].” Why is watching a villain get what’s coming to her “near-pornographic fascination?” There’s nothing sexual about the act of killing her, or its filming/gaze. Also, after her death, her body is sometimes held in the same shot with the two protagonists, as if her character still lives on in a way.

• Did this reviewer feel the same way when Tarantino’s three protagonists were kicking the living bejesus out of Russell’s character in Death Proof?
• What about when Elle is sitting over Bud’s snake-poison-filled body in Kill Bill Vol. 2 and calmly reading to him? If anything, that is more tortuous and sick, plus the camera is looking up at Elle (murderer) and down at Bud (victim). These camera angles are reversed in Domergue’s murder, with an upward shot on her and downward at the murderers.
• If I recall correctly, the audience also “whooped it up” each time significant discomfort befell almost any of the characters: O.B. getting really cold, Ruth and O.B. throwing up from poison, Mannix getting shot and passing out, etc.
• If I recall correctly, the audience pretty clearly celebrated or enjoyed the shorter-in-duration but also gristly murders of Bob and Jody. This violence was also slated as comical.
• Maybe I was the only sick person in the theater, but I also found it pretty enjoyable and hilarious that Tim Roth’s character didn’t die right away, and he was crawling around in the background while a bunch of other stuff was going on, with no one paying him any mind.
• May I take a moment to reiterate the violence to Major Warren’s genitals? This was extremely comical to the audience — why is his violence earned but hers is not?
• There are only a few murders in the film that are decidedly not celebrated and those are of three women (and two men, one of whom is an older man in his 70s).

I see the temptation to look at what happens to Daisy Domergue on-screen and denounce, “You sexist, you’re destroying a woman, how misogynist!” I even did it for moments myself. However, I encourage everyone to move past this knee-jerk reaction. It’s possible that subconscious sexism makes people quick to see her as a victim, and then criticism of the trope of women as victims may be getting in the way of seeing the agency and complexity of a character like Domergue. I’d rather we not take this as an opportunity to put down Tarantino, but as an opportunity to celebrate Leigh’s nuanced and powerful performance – she even took time to learn to play guitar to perform a song in the film — as film critics are doing this awards season.

I’ll close with a quote from Tarantino:

“Violence is hanging over every one of those characters like a cloak of night. So I’m not going to go, ‘OK, that’s the case for seven of the characters, but because one is a woman, I have to treat her differently.’ I’m not going to do that.”

Notes:

[1] See my view on the only acceptable treatment of sexual violence in film in “I’ll Make You Feel Like You’ve Never Felt Before”: Jennifer’s Power in I Spit on Your Grave

[2] See a thoughtful exploration of the Bride’s rape revenge in Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Not at All?. I agree with Rodriguez’s interpretation that Buck is “at the bottom of the barrel” as the first to die, but I disagree that Tarantino sees this is a means of empowerment that enables her to find liberation. I see it as another brutalization by Bill (indirectly) that further justifies her revenge. The Bride’s revenge against Bill feels very “tit for tat” in the way historically all-male cast movies are written, yet by working in the rape and the losing of her baby, he makes them more true to the realities of what a female character would face (again without showing sexual violence). Writing a female character with completely equal respect as a male character, yet with these realistic modifications based on gender, is the most feminist thing I can imagine.

[3] This argument of “implied not shown” was used to justify a reason why Mad Max: Fury Road is a feminist film.

Sophie Besl is an exploitation film fanatic with a day job in nonprofit marketing. She has a Bachelor’s from Harvard and lives in Boston with three small dogs. She tweets at @rockyc5.

What’s in a Name: Anxiety About Violent Women in ‘Monster,’ ‘Teeth,’ and ‘The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo’

The first college course I ever developed focuses on women and violence. Stemming from my interest in women who enact violence on and off the page, I wanted to ask students to think about our perceptions of women as “naturally” peaceful.

This post by Colleen Clemens appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

When I tell people that I teach a course on women and violence, the conversation almost always goes like this:

Interested and well-meaning person: “What are you teaching this semester?”

Me: “One of the classes is the course I developed on women and violence in films and literature.”

Interested and well-meaning person: “Wow, there is so much to focus on. Domestic violence, rape, such a hard subject. Are you going to use The Accused?”

Me, trying not to sound like a jerky academic: “Actually the course focuses on women who perpetrate violence. I want to think about what it means when women enact violence as well.”

Long pause. Furrowed brow. Another beat.

Interested and well-meaning person: “Oh. I never really thought about that. Will you talk about Lorena Bobbitt?”

And that is why I developed the course. Because even the most thoughtful among us rarely take the time to consider women beyond the role of victim. When a woman enacts violence, we feel great anxiety because she is dismantling the binary of woman as natural caretaker (see Katha Pollitt’s “Marooned on Gilligan’s Island” for a great discussion of this concept. I start the course with this text). Only men are supposed to be violent. And the texts that portray women as violent actors anticipate this anxiety. When a woman is violent in a film or novel, she often has a reason–often sexual assault–that motivates her violence. The titles of several of these films demonstrate the anxiety we feel about a text displaying women actors of violence. And all of the films tell the story of a woman who was wronged–because that is the only way a woman would ever break out of the rigid mold of care-taking, peaceful earth mother.

_________________________

Monster

Based on the true story of Aileen Wuornos, this film follows Theron’s character through the development of her serial killing. When raped while working as a prostitute, Aileen kills her attacker. She comes to see that the world she lives in is dangerous and attempts to find a job off of the streets, but those positions won’t take her because they see her as unqualified. She wants to enter the world of “legitimate female work,” i.e., a secretary, only to be told that she doesn’t get to just jump into the world of law.

[youtube_sc url=”https://youtu.be/sraDVyksYMs”]

The film shows us that she has no other choice but to return to the streets, and once there, she kills her johns because she is terrified of being raped again. Until the murders turn. Aileen spares one man only to kill another who offers her help. When is enacting fear of being raped, the audience feels some kind of pity for her. When she takes the life of an “innocent,” she loses the audience’s sympathy and becomes the eponymous “monster.”

Here is where titles start to matter. I ask my students–and you–why isn’t the film titled Aileen? Because that would humanize her. And there is no humanity allowed for a woman that enacts violence. We cannot sit with such an idea that there is something human to her. She MUST be a monster for us to reconcile our ideas of femininity with the character we feel for during the majority of the film. Interestingly, the documentary about her life does use her first name.

If we look at a list of films about serial killers that are based on true stories, most of the titles allude to the name given to the male killer: Jack the Ripper, Doctor Death, Jeffrey Dahmer, Zodiac, the Green River Killer. Monster‘s title does no such thing. She is a monster. No human woman could ever do such a thing. Perhaps this is why so much was made of Theron’s transformation, as if we all needed to be reminded “It is OK. Remember, this is all fake. The most gorgeous woman in the world is under all of that makeup!”

_________________________

Teeth

Though I have written about this film before on a piece about the rape revenge genre (for a summary, head on over there for a recap), here I would like to focus on the title of the film.

We see a similar trope: girl gets raped; therefore, girl becomes violent. Dawn is literally a lily-white virgin, a “good” girl, until the horrors of patriarchy completely turn her. And her body protects her from further harm.

[youtube_sc url=”https://youtu.be/IA5l86aluqQ”]

Again, the film creates a space for sympathy for Dawn. We can “understand” why she becomes violent through–and in spite of–her biology. Her vagina dentata takes over her thinking self. Then Dawn learns to use it for her own good. And then Dawn becomes a vigilante.

This movie poster is telling. Her vagina makes her squeamish. The power of it is too much to handle for her. Again, why isn’t this film called Dawn? Are her teeth more important than herself? Her toothed vagina is anxiety producing. She is monstrous. Her vagina is all she is, and she must simultaneously protect it and use it protect other women.

_________________________

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo Series

I find everything about the titling of this series fascinating. Stieg Larrson’s orginal title, Men Who Hate Women, has been completely lost on American audiences. Want to blow someone’s mind? Tell her this was the title. So now that we got that fact out of the way, let’s talk about the content and title. Again, we have an assaulted woman who uses violence to enact revenge on those who have wronged her and her family.

Lisbeth is certainly NOT a girl. She is a woman in this film. Infantilizing her and naming the film “the girl” and then pointing out something on her body is similar to naming Dawn’s film Teeth. The body becomes the girl. Because a “true” girl would never, ever do the things these women do–even if their bodies were violated. And why is Lisbeth behind Blomkvist when the trilogy is her story (don’t forget she’s still a “girl” when she kicks the hornet’s nest)? Making Lisbeth Salander a “girl” denies her womanhood because we don’t want to see her as a woman. A “natural woman” would never do what she does in the trilogy.

We shouldn’t forget that all of the characters are being failed by the patriarchal system. Aileen wants to get out of prostituting and is mocked for her attempt. Dawn is told that being a virgin is all that matters, and she is now dirty. Lisbeth is raped by the people in the system who are supposed to be protecting her welfare. Because all three revolt against the system of oppression, we have to “other” them and distance themselves from femininity. It is the only way society can sleep at night.

Shieldmaidens: The Power and Pleasure of Women’s Violence on ‘Vikings’

In ‘Reel Knockouts: Violent Women in the Movies,’ Neal King and Martha McCaughey assert that “cultural standards still equate womanhood with kindness and nonviolence, manhood with strength and aggression.” Under the Victorian cult of true womanhood, womanly virtue was supposed to encompass piety, purity, submissiveness, and domesticity. Thank goodness writer/producer Michael Hirst ignored those virtues by creating two dynamic women warriors with his historical drama ‘Vikings.’

This post by Lisa Bolekaja appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

It is rare to find films or television shows where women characters are actively violent without some cause. Conventional storylines that portray women resorting to violence are typically ones in which women are attacked, raped, or protecting loved ones, most likely children. Women are pushed to extreme acts of violence because of patriarchal dominance, or some form of outside threat that usually targets them because they are female and perceived as weak. Female passivity is the expected norm. Men “do” things, women have things “done” to them. The 80’s and early 90’s ushered in a bumper crop of American films portraying kickass women (mostly White—Pam Grier held it down for Black women in the 70s); however, given closer inspection, most of these violent women were reacting to something and not necessarily acting out.

In Reel Knockouts: Violent Women in the Movies, Neal King and Martha McCaughey assert that “cultural standards still equate womanhood with kindness and nonviolence, manhood with strength and aggression.” Under the Victorian cult of true womanhood, womanly virtue was supposed to encompass piety, purity, submissiveness, and domesticity. Thank goodness writer/producer Michael Hirst ignored those virtues by creating two dynamic women warriors with his historical drama Vikings. Writer Giselle Defares does a great job giving an overview of the show here, however my focus is on two particular women, both warriors (known as shieldmaidens on the show), who represent a new type of bad-assery that some feminists may argue replicate male domination and aggression. The women, Lagertha (Katheryn Winnick) and Porunn (Gaia Weiss) are two women warriors who derive pleasure and wield power by going to battle alongside their men. Real talk: sometimes a woman wants to knock the stuffing out of people and wreck shop just like the guys.

Watching these two women maneuver the world of the violent dark ages is fascinating because they are not constructed as emasculating or overly masculine women who need to be put in their place by their men (although it does occur on occasion). They are presented as Viking women who are part of the fabric of the violent society they live in who also further the goals of their aggressive Northen European/Scandinavian culture. They are providers of home and hearth, defenders of home and hearth, and will go raid some other country’s home and hearth to take what they want too. This egalitarian treatment of women as warriors is the best part of watching Vikings. Unlike the English or Parisian women who stay posted up on the show waiting for their men to defend them, Viking women are straight up in the mix, leading charges, and beating their enemies.

Lagertha: Baddest Chick in the Game

Lagertha Lothbrok is depicted in the first episode of the show as a typical farm wife caring for her two young children inside their humble abode in a place called Kattegat while her husband Ragnar is away on some manly quest. Two men, strangers, enter their home under the pretext of seeking food and warmth. It soon becomes clear that they are there to sexually harass and rape her. In any other historical drama, the woman may put up a valiant fight, only to be brutalized once she is overpowered. A husband/lover/shining knight may arrive to save the day at the last minute, or be spurned into action by man pain after their woman has been violated or murdered. Not so Lagertha. She sends her children outside, pretends to be compliant to the two men, and proceeds to fuck them up with kitchen utensils. In this moment we learn that:

Lagertha does not need a male savior.
Men may have to be saved from her fighting prowess.
She likes to fight.

Lagertha physically fights with her husband Ragnar when he wants her to stay behind and care for their children when she would rather go on the raiding party into the new land of England. We’re talking real knock down, dragged out fisticuffs in the house. And she bruises Ragnar up pretty good as well, taking full hits from him like a boss. Even in the midst of their physical altercation, viewers can tell they really love each other. This aggression toward each other isn’t new, and they will most likely fight again about other raids Lagertha wants to participate in. She isn’t afraid to become violent to get what she wants. And Ragnar doesn’t expect her to back down ever.

Viewers want this couple to win in life and love (and oddly enough their domestic battles too), but when Ragnar becomes an Earl and later impregnates a woman from another clan, he tries to convince Lagertha to let him have two wives; Aslaug his new pregnant sidepiece, and herself in an egalitarian polyamorous household. Ragnar loves both women (but Aslaug mainly because she can have the sons that Lagertha’s body can no longer carry to term), however, Lagertha is too proud and full of self-respect. Once again, in any other movie or television show, Ragnar would most likely force Lagertha to obey him with threats of violence or death, or he would abandon her. Instead, Lagertha chooses to divorce him. Their young son, Bjorn, chooses to go with her. She literally leaves Ragnar standing in the dust crying over her and his beloved son as she rides off into a new land and life without him.

Lagertha’s warrior ways don’t leave her as she re-marries and eventually defies her new husband, the Earl of Hedeby, by bringing a phalanx of warriors to help her ex-husband Ragnar defeat a mutual enemy four years later. Once Lagertha gets word that Kattegat has been overrun and Ragnar (with his new wife and children) has fled to the hills, she comes to his rescue with their now grown son Bjorn doing what she does best: kicking ass and taking names. When her new husband tries to humiliate and sexually harass her in front of their court, Lagertha stabs him in the eye and snatches up his title and power, becoming the new Earl of Hedeby.

In her new position of authority over an entire people, Lagertha stands with the newly crowned King Ragnar by fighting with him overseas and sitting next to him at the seat of power with other Earls and Kings making strategic decisions on their planned raids. She helps Ragnar force an English King to negotiate monetary rewards and a new alliance. She leads a small contingent of fierce shieldmaidens on a secret night attack against the city of Paris that galvanizes the male Viking warriors after devastating setbacks in their battles against the French.

Lagertha claims her right to be a woman, mother, warrior, pagan, and political leader without gender constraints. Granted, her people do participate in patriarchal terrorism towards other countries and the women go along with it, but in the context of that culture, it is the norm, and shieldmaidens will kill women from other countries without hesitation. Nationhood supplants sisterhood on the battlefield. And as anti-feminist as that sounds, there is something to be said about bold women with agency, even if they are anti-heroes in someone else’s narrative. Many fans of the show (myself included) believe Ragnar was stupid for letting Lagertha go, a woman who was truly his equal, unlike his new Queen Aslaug whose only power as a woman comes from being alluring, birthing sons, and supporting Ragnar as his trophy wife. Aslaug’s gift of “second sight” seems banal and useless at best, and in the third season Ragnar is no longer enamored by her. He looks bored. And if it sounds like shade is being thrown, it’s because I’m #TeamLagertha.

PORUNN: On the Come Up

Porunn is introduced in a later season of Vikings as a young slave woman who works for King Ragnar and Queen Aslaug. Bjorn, Lagertha and Ragnar’s son, becomes smitten with her, and has eyes to make her his woman. Although a lowly slave in the household, Porunn does not allow herself to become a common bed wench without letting Bjorn know the uneven power dynamics of their relationship. She knows that he is the firstborn of the King and that he can have anything he wants, even women. But Bjorn has really fallen hard for her and they soon become lovers even though Porunn still has to work for the Queen and King. Queen Aslaug notices this budding relationship and how happy Porunn makes Bjorn, so she grants Porunn her freedom and gives her new clothing suitable for a young free woman of Kattegat.

Does Porunn run after Bjorn to access the status and resources she now has as a newly freed woman who is partnered with the King’s son? Nope. Porunn, immediately goes to train as a shieldmaiden, to become a warrior like her hero Lagertha, not a future Princess sitting on a throne and birthing babies for her man.

Porunn does become “with child” in a matter of time, and yet she still insists on sailing with Ragnar, Lagertha, and the other warriors into England to pillage and kill while pregnant. This fact enrages Ragnar and upsets Lagertha when they find out Porunn is fighting while carrying their grandchild. They blame Bjorn for being stupid and weak for not stopping his lover, instead of recognizing the fierce warrior status Porunn wants to uphold.

Porunn becomes severely injured and disfigured with a vicious sword cut to her face during a savage battle against the English. Back in Kattegat she falls into a depression thinking Bjorn doesn’t want to marry her now because she is ugly and not worthy of his love or that of their unborn child. She is wrong of course, but her looming pregnancy depresses her even more and she tells the other women that she doesn’t want to have the baby now.

Months after the birth of her daughter, (and while Bjorn, Lagertha and Ragnar are away), Porunn abandons her child by leaving her with Aslaug. She takes off into the hills in search of her destiny as a shieldmaiden, perhaps regaining the confidence she lost after her disfigurement. The audience is left to wonder if she will return to her child and Bjorn. Sometimes women aren’t maternal and don’t want children. A squalling baby hanging off her breasts is not for Porunn the moment she leaves. Maybe the spilling of more enemy blood and high adventure is. She, along with Lagertha, subverts the trappings of conventional femininity and the cult of true womanhood by engaging in so-called masculine pursuits such as war and territorial expansion.

Lagertha and Porunn drink, fuck, celebrate their Norse Gods and wish a muthafucka would start some shit because they will finish it. They undermine assumptions about gender, female violence, and the pleasures they obtain from bloodshed. About to enter its fourth season, Michael Hirst has set the bar high for his women warriors on Vikings. Time will tell if Lagertha and Porunn can survive the violent world they help create and shape.

Staff Writer Lisa Bolekaja is the co-host of the increasingly popular Hilliard Guess’ Screenwriters Rant Room podcast. She’s a member of the Horror Writers Association, a former Film Independent Fellow, and a writer of speculative fiction. Her latest short story “Ninja Fishing” can be found in the new Awkward Robots Orange Volume available now. She divides her time between Twitter, Italy, Southern Cali and various Sci Fi conventions. You can find her @LisaBolekaja

Children: The Great Qualifier of Female Violence

True, the rape revenge trope has been put at bay, but there is still a gender issue behind the remaining motivation. It focuses around the assumption of maternity being the all-encompassing passion. Until female characters can be violent for reasons that have nothing to do with their womanhood, there still isn’t complete equality in media.

This guest post by Katherine Fusciardi appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill movies are often used in the discussion on the Rape Revenge genre of films. However, Kill Bill is actually one of the movies that falls under that genre, but doesn’t actually have much to do with rape revenge. Kill Bill’s “The Bride” character is an example of when other reasons for revenge are presented, when a woman is allowed to be violent for reasons other than seeking vengeance for a sexual assault. Aside from avenging her dead fiancé, the bride also seeks vengeance for the death of her child. Through further examination of well-liked violent female characters in popular media a pattern appears. Violent women can be loved as characters, as long as their reason for violence is sound in the mind of the viewer. Rape revenge is one of those acceptable reasons, another is the violent loss of a child.

As stated in Tammy Oler’s “The Brave Ones,”

“Kill Bill Vols. 1 and 2 and The Brave One are notable not just because they are among the most commercially successful films about revenge ever made, but also because they don’t use rape as their starting point” (Oler 34).

Beatrix Kiddo, “the bride,” makes it very clear that she is after revenge for her fiancé and child. When she confronts Vernita Green she claims she will not attack while Vernita is near her own child, but makes it clear she will still kill Vernita.

“No, to get even, even-Steven… I would have to kill you… go up to Nikki’s room, kill her… then wait for your husband, the good Dr. Bell, to come home and kill him. That would be even, Vernita. That’d be about square” (Kill Bill).

Beatrix goes back on this promise when Vernita attacks, resulting in Vernita’s daughter witnessing the whole incident. Given that this is the first fight the viewer sees Beatrix in, it shapes her character. Beatrix’s response to the situation shows how cold she can be expected to be. She tells the little girl,

“It was not my intention to do this in front of you. For that I’m sorry. But you can take my word for it, your mother had it coming. When you grow up, if you still feel raw about it, I’ll be waiting” (Kill Bill).

With that amount of motivation behind Beatrix’s revenge, the rationale for her violence should be covered. However, even Oler’s article admitted that despite the different reasons for revenge presented, there is still a sexualizing to that female character, such as the rape seen in the first Kill Bill movie, in which Beatrix wakes up from her coma to find that she has been raped repeatedly in her sleep. Tammy Oler questioned whether that was necessary or not:

“Is it because it heightens the sense of victimization or because we believe that rape, real or otherwise, is the only believable crime that prompts women to such anger and violence?” (Oler 34)

A proper response to that question can be found by delving into other popular violent female characters, such as Carol and Michonne from the hit AMC television series The Walking Dead. In the beginning of the series the viewers are introduced to Carol Peletier, a housewife trying to survive the zombie apocalypse with her abusive husband and their daughter Sophia. When the abusive husband dies in season one there is the expectation that Carol will be able to develop more as a character without her husband around to push her back down. However, that development doesn’t happen. It isn’t until her daughter dies in season two that the viewer sees any change in Carol’s character.

At the beginning of season two, Sophia, Carol’s daughter, goes missing after a “walker” (zombie) attack. Sophia is not confirmed dead until she is found as a walker at the end of season two, episode seven: “Pretty Much Dead Already.” In episode eight, “Nebraska” Carol says,

“That’s not my little girl. It’s some other… thing. My Sophia was lost in the woods. All this time, I thought. But she didn’t go hungry. She didn’t cry herself to sleep. She didn’t try to find her way back. Sophia died a long time ago” (The Walking Dead S2EP8)

when asked to attend her child’s funeral. This attitude is the first indication of the transformation Carol will undergo.

In season four of The Walking Dead Carol is asked to take two girls, Lizzie and Mika, under her protection by their dying father. As part of their education the girls are required to learn the proper way to kill walkers and are instructed to never call Carol “Mom.” When asked by Lizzie why Carol’s daughter wasn’t there anymore Carol responds “She didn’t have a mean bone in her body” (The Walking Dead S4EP14) and insists that the girls learn a lesson from that, which is to do whatever it takes to survive; kill walkers and kill people. Killing people is something Carol had recently come to terms with, killing two influenza infected members of their group to protect the rest.

When it becomes apparent Lizzie has become mentally disturbed, and refuses to kill walkers because she believes they are good, Carol labels Lizzie as weak and begins grooming Mika, the younger sister, to be the tougher survivor. However, in that same episode, Lizzie murders her little sister in order to turn her into a walker. Once Carol realizes Lizzie will never be able to live among people again, Carol shoots Lizzie and never speaks about either girl ever again.

Though out the series the viewers are also introduced to a new character, Michonne. Michonne is a katana wielding woman that instantly became a show favorite. When Michonne was introduced into the series in season three she was accompanied by two jawless, armless walkers kept chained to her person. Later in the season she reveals that the two walkers were her boyfriend and his friend. Her boyfriend was also the father of her child, which died after the apocalypse began. She blamed those two men, whom she found undead along with the child in their camp, for the death of her son. When telling the story of her son’s death, Michonne describes going on a supply run and returning to her camp only to find her son dead and both men bitten. “They were high when it happened,” she said, “And they were bit. I could have stopped it, could of killed them, but I let them turn” (The Walking Dead, S4EP16). To punish them, and herself, even after death she mutilated their walker bodies so they would no longer be a threat and kept them chained to her at all times. This was her way of ensuring that neither of the men would find rest. “It was insane. It was sick. It felt like what I deserved” (S4EP16).

The popularity of these characters shows that the masses can accept the motivation of violent women for more than rape revenge. So, why is rape revenge is still considered the go-to reason for female violence? In a paper written and presented by Ruby Tapia at the Visual Culture Gathering, the issues of race and feminism as they relate to Kill Bill are discussed. The paper uses quotes from Quentin Tarantino to explain his motivation. As stated earlier, the rape scene in Kill Bill changes the motivation of the character and introduces rape-revenge as a fall back reasoning for Beatrix’s violence. To Tarantino it was his way of addressing issues he saw n society:

“Once I got this idea in my mind, I couldn’t get it out. It would be a lot easier if I didn’t go down that road, but then that would be cowardice to me. Because there have been reports about, you know, comatose patients being raped” (Ruby Tapia, Quentin Tarantino 33).

The conversation continues with Tarantino describing an obsession with the idea, and described it as the spice that would get viewers addicted to his film. To which Tapia had to say, “Thus, buried so deep inside the filmic narrative as Tarantino might suggest, is the rape fantasy turned real” (34).

Taken straight from Tarantino, we can see that the rape scene was never meant to be a factor into Beatrix’s motivation. It was simply thrown in out of Tarantino’s whim, as both a nod to feminism and a lure for his movie. With that in mind, it means the rape scene has zero meaning to the plot. Rape revenge has nothing to do with Kill Bill, outside of that one scene.

Rape revenge ceases to the only viable motivation for violent women when these three popular characters are analyzed. Beatrix Kiddo was not seeking revenge for her rape, she was seeking revenge for her fiancé and child. From The Walking Dead, neither Carol nor Michonne was raped. They became violent following the violent losses of their children. The reasoning behind the violent acts committed by these women does bring to mind a different issue. True, the rape revenge trope has been put at bay, but there is still a gender issue behind the remaining motivation. It focuses around the assumption of maternity being the all-encompassing passion. Until female characters can be violent for reasons that have nothing to do with their womanhood, there still isn’t complete equality in media.

Works Cited

Oler, Tammy. “The Brave Ones.” Bitch Magazine: Feminist Response to Pop Culture Winter, 2009, 30-34. Print.

Kill Bill Vol. 1. Dir. Quentin Tarantino. Perf. Uma Thurman, David Carradine. Miramax Films, 2003 DVD.

Tapia, Ruby. “Volumes of Transnational Vengeance: Fixing Race and Feminism on the Way to Kill Bill.” Visual Arts Research Vol. 32. No 2 (2006): 32-37. Print.

“Nebraska.” The Walking Dead Season Two. Exec. Producer Frank Durabont. Perf. Mellissa McBride. AMC, 2011. DVD.

“A.” The Walking Dead Season Four. Exec. Producer Frank Durabont. Perf. Danai Gurira. AMC, 2013. DVD.

Katherine Fusciardi is a senior in the English program at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania. Katherine created the student organization known as SCAR (Student Campaign Against Rape) and is currently using her position as president to increase awareness, action, and support on her campus.

‘Monster’: A Telling of the Real Life Consequences for Violent Women

Throughout her life, Wuornos experienced horrific instances of gendered abuse, which eventually lead to a violent outlash at her unfair circumstances. ‘Monster’ vividly documents the life of a woman whose experiences under a dominant patriarchal culture racked with abuse, poverty, and desperation led to a life of crime, imprisonment, and eventually death.

This guest post by Danika Kimball appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

American film audiences love the idea of violence, especially in regard to justice. From Bruce Wayne’s masked forays as Batman, to Frank Underwood’s signature House of Cards sneer, pop culture and media landscapes are bombarded with the image of a vigilante bringing matters into their own hands to enact justice. But what is almost more widely revered is the concept of a woman taking matters into her own hands, as it defies societal norms on numerous levels.

We see this depiction in numerous films. To the audience’s delight, heroine Beatrix Kiddo takes vengeance on her abusers in the Kill Bill series, and Furiosa defiantly defends her right to redemption from evil doers in Mad Max: Fury Road. But sometimes, females who resort to violence aren’t celebrated, and there is perhaps no greater depiction of this than Charlize Theron’s embodiment of Aileen Wuornos in the widely acclaimed dramatic film, Monster.

Monster is a film based on the life of Aileen Wuornos, who was one of the first female serial killers in the United States. Wuornos, an impoverished former prostitute, was executed in Florida in October 2002 for the murder of six men, each of whom were her former customers. She was only the second woman in Florida and the tenth women in the United States to receive the death penalty since the landmark 1976 Supreme Court decision that restored capital punishment.

The film made an impact on most for its graphic depictions of murder, but upon re-watching the film 10 years later, the portrayal of Aileen’s life in Monster was a cruel visualization of the impacts of patriarchy, poverty, and the ways in which the criminal justice system fails violent women.

In the opening scenes of Monster, we see Aileen as an adult sitting under a busy highway overpass, replaying her life story. We see her as a young child, dreaming of being an icon like Marilyn Monroe, wealthy, loved, and the center of attention.

Her fantasy fades as she walks into a gay bar with the five dollars she had just earned from a John which she was determined to spend before she ended her life. It’s here she meets a woman named Selby, a person she would later devote to protect at any cost.

The pair eventually find solace in their shared loneliness and fall in love, which pushes Selby out of her compulsory heterosexuality. Aileen, finally having someone to care for, takes it upon herself to be a provider for Selby. The film follows Aileen’s struggle to support her newfound family, her efforts in making sure that Selby is happy, and the struggle to maintain her own dignity.

After being raped and brutalized by a client, Aileen kills him in self-defense, vowing to quit prostitution. She confesses her crime to Selby, as Selby has been angry with her for not supporting the two of them.

Aileen’s efforts to find a job prove to be difficult she has no marketable skills, and no job history outside of her years of prostitution. Any prospective employers reject her, some openly volatile, accosting her for wasting their time. We see throughout the film that everyone in Aileen’s life believe that no man will ever pay her for anything aside from her body.

With nowhere to turn, Aileen returns to a life of prostitution, each time killing and robbing her Johns more brutally than the last, as she is convinced they are all trying to harm her.

In this context, it becomes difficult for a viewer to see her actions as evil. Aileen’s actions almost appear to be rational, even moral decisions, when viewed through the lens of extreme gender and class oppression. We see this in her explanations to Selby later, where she implores that she is helping to protect the other women in the world, who might also be victimized these men. She says,

Who the fuck knows what God wants? People kill each other every day and for what? Hm? For politics, for religion, and THEY’RE HEROES! No, no… There’s a lot of shit I can’t do anymore, but killing’s not one of them. And letting those fucking bastards go out and rape someone else isn’t either!

Eventually Aileen’s murders catch up with her, and she is arrested at a biker bar. While speaking to Selby on the phone, Selby reveals incriminating information over the phone while the police are listening in. As her last display of protection, Aileen admits she committed the murders alone. During the subsequent trial, Selby testifies against her in the courtroom hearings. Aileen is executed by lethal injection on October 9, 2002.

Part of what makes Monster so honest and relevant to feminists is the way that it recognizes and points to the patriarchal conditions in place that frame and constrain women’s choices, sometimes leading to a life of crime.

Throughout her life Aileen has been victimized, raped, and violence is a part of her day-to-day existence.

Emily Salisbury, a professor at Portland State University’s Criminology and Criminal Justice Program, suggests that patriarchal conditions are often a huge part of the reason for women’s participation in criminal activity and subsequent incarcerations. She remarks,

With the work of feminist scholars such as Mita Chesney Lynn, Kathleen Daly, Regina Arnold, Barbara Owen and many others, new ideas about female offending were established. The qualitative life history interviews that these scholars conducted with girls and women suggested that their lives leading up to criminal justice involvement were extremely complex and disadvantaged, with unique daily struggles…such as struggles with child abuse, depression, self-medicating behavior, self-hatred, parenting responsibilities, domestic violence and unhealthy intimate relationships. It’s argued that these problems create unique pathways to crime for women.

Many of the struggles listed are applicable to Aileen’s incarceration. In a documentary called Aileen Wuornos: Life and Death of a Serial Killer, director Nick Broomfield speaks to the infamous murderer, where she expresses that if her life leading up to adulthood had been more ideal, she wouldn’t have entered a life of crime in the first place. Family members and close friends remark throughout the film that she was the product of homelessness, violence, abuse, prostitution, poverty, incest, rape, and mental illness.

Throughout her life, Wuornos experienced horrific instances of gendered abuse, which eventually lead to a violent outlash at her unfair circumstances. Monster vividly documents the life of a woman whose experiences under a dominant patriarchal culture racked with abuse, poverty, and desperation led to a life of crime, imprisonment, and eventually death.

Though on-screen depictions of violent women are portrayed as empowering, as is the case with vengeful Furiosa in Mad Max, or the cathartic revenge plot for Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill, Aileen Wuornos’ story tells a different story for violent women. Monster illustrates that all too often, violent women’s pasts are rifled with oppression, and in defending themselves, they face consequences from legal systems that have proven to fail them in the past. For Aileen, violent self-preservation ended in demise.

Danika Kimball is a musician from the Northwest who sometimes takes a 30-minute break from feminism to enjoy a TV show. You can follow her on twitter @sadwhitegrrl or on Instagram @drunkfeminist.

Violence and Morality in ‘The 100’

This act of mercy killing is the first of many moments when Clarke is forced to be violent for the good of others. It not only prompts an important change within herself – she loses her idealistic ways – but it prompts a change in the group dynamics. After this moment, Clarke begins to pull away from the co-leadership she and Bellamy had operated in and moves toward becoming the sole leader of the delinquents.

This guest post by Esther Nassaris appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

We see violence on screen a lot. In fact, some would argue we’ve become desensitised to it. And in a way I think that’s true. After all, a lot of the time it is used solely for shock value, something to make the audience gasp during sweeps week. Or in the case of women, a vile way to sexualise a character further and to feed into the male gaze. Yet violence on The 100 isn’t like that. It’s ingrained in the plot because of the world the show is set in, not thrown in to shock or titillate. It’s explored in an intelligent and thought provoking way. In short, it’s one of the many things that The 100 is doing right.

The premise of the show was brilliant from day one and from the moment one of the leads, Wells (Eli Goree), was killed off in episode 3 “Earth Kills” I knew that this show was different. The show picks up 97 years after a nuclear war is thought to have destroyed all life on earth. The rest of humanity survives on a massive space station, known as The Ark. Yet when resources run low and systems begin to fail they send a group of 100 expendable juvenile delinquents to Earth to see if the land is survivable. The delinquents quickly find out that they are not alone on Earth, and from day one have to fight to survive. In the futuristic world of The 100, discrimination has become a non-issue. The only way to differentiate between people is what clan you’re part of. Everything else just simply doesn’t matter. It’s the shows modern approach to gender, race, and sexuality that allows us a wealth of well-written women who encompass violence in different ways.

Like many sci-fi shows, The 100 is no stranger to violence; however, its relationship with it is complex and ever-changing. As Clarke (Eliza Taylor) is the protagonist of the show, we first consider violence from her perspective. Clarke is initially seen as a more idealistic character, hesitant to use violence and more likely to resist the use of force. This is shown through her immediate disagreements with Bellamy (Bob Morley) when he becomes a leader of the delinquents in a very Lord of the Flies-esque way. However, when one of the delinquents is critically injured in episode 3 “Earth Kills” and begs Bellamy to kill him, Clarke is the one to do it. This act of mercy killing is the first of many moments when Clarke is forced to be violent for the good of others. It not only prompts an important change within herself – she loses her idealistic ways – but it prompts a change in the group dynamics. After this moment, Clarke begins to pull away from the co-leadership she and Bellamy had operated in and moves toward becoming the sole leader of the delinquents.

As a leader Clarke swiftly becomes a much more pragmatic character, understanding that violence is a necessary part of life on the ground. In episode 7 “Contents Under Pressure” we can already see the change in her character as she authorises the use of violence against an enemy clan member. And while she is hesitant at first, she allows it to happen once she realises that it’s necessary to gain the information that she requires. Although she isn’t the one to directly inflict the violence, as a leader of her people it is her that is directly responsible for the actions of her people. While this is a more calculated version of the violence that Clarke has adopted, we see a more instinctual version in episode 11 “The Calm.” While captured by the Grounders, in a desperate attempt to escape Clarke brutally attacks and kills her guard. In this moment violence is clearly the resourceful thing to do. It is a sign of intelligence and strength of character that Clarke not only recognises that she must act quickly, but that she has the ability to do so.

As a sharp juxtaposition to Clarke, we have Octavia (Marie Avgeropoulos). An outsider from day one, Octavia is the first to adapt to the harsh way of life on the ground and is the first to transition into the Grounder clan. This is mainly because of her early acceptance of violence. While Clarke is a master of the calculated and strategic violence; Octavia is a front line kind of fighter. Yet even when Octavia finds her way into the Grounder clan we still see her as an outsider. The 100 plays with the idea that this type of violence isn’t appropriate for femaleness. It makes us challenge our own perceptions. If women are unable to be so powerfully violent, then why does Octavia thrive this way? It’s a very typical male role, and thus The 100 subverts expectations of traditional gender roles.

The Grounders offer the audience yet another viewpoint into violent women. As survivors of the nuclear war, The Grounders have adapted into a survival first way of living. In episode 11 “The Calm” we see that violence is taught from a young age when Anya’s (Dichen Lachman) second is a young girl. Violence is intrinsic for them. They know no other way. In the midst of their fight for survival, concepts of gender, sexuality, and race have largely fallen away. This allows many of the Grounder leaders to be women. Most notably Commander Lexa (Alycia Debnam-Carey), who leads the Grounder clans. However like the Sky People do, we initially distrust the Grounders. We see them as an enemy, and their way of living barbaric and ruthless. While Clarke has some clear reservations about making the harsh decisions to kill or torture, Lexa makes them without questioning it. She knows when these methods are necessary. It is interesting to consider if perhaps this is why some people dislike the character. It is harder to accept a violent woman who is completely committed to these acts. There’s no softening of the blow for the audience. This is who she is and these are the harsh actions that she will not hesitate to make.

As the stakes are raised in season 2, the level of violence also increases and thus morality becomes an even more prominent question on the show. It’s not just the characters that are left wondering whether their choices were right, the viewer is forced to ask the same question. Would we go to such a dark and brutal place? Could we? Often times when you watch a show or a film in which violence is a main theme, there’s a clear right and wrong, a good and evil. We don’t feel bad rooting for someone who’s inflicting so much damage because we know they’re on the good side. But violence on The 100 is presented in a morally grey area. Most importantly, there’s never a separate type of violence for men and women. When Clarke kills hundreds of people to save less than 50 of her own it doesn’t take away from her femininity. It doesn’t make her a masculine character. In fact gender is not taken into account. It makes her a good leader, and perhaps a flawed person, but never any less female.

Esther Nassaris is a Media and Communication student at Glasgow Caledonian University who is passionate about all things television, feminism, and pop culture. She spends most of her time either writing about, or watching television, and would like to become an entertainment journalist. Find her on twitter at @EstNas or blogging on https://tvforfeminists.wordpress.com/

‘Hard Candy’: The Razor Blade Hidden in an Apple-Cheeked Confection

Hogtying and drugging Jeff is only the tip of Hayley’s sadistic iceberg: over the course of the next several hours, she subjects him to a series of tortures more at home in Guantanamo Bay than a sleepy suburban neighborhood, including spraying his screaming mouth with chemicals, temporarily suffocating him with cellophane, and attacking him with a taser in the shower.

This guest post by Emma Kat Richardson appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Even around Halloween time, Hollywood doesn’t hand out movies like Hard Candy all that often. It’s a difficult morsel to swallow, and, despite the presence of adorably teenaged Ellen Page peering meekly from the cast list, not the slightest bit sugary – indeed, much of the exposition is skin-crawling enough to make the hardiest of trick-or-treaters lose their appetites. And yet, beneath its decidedly gruff exterior (understatement of the year, perhaps?) lies the timeless tale of a boy and a girl. But in this case, he’s a man merely masquerading as a responsible adult, and she’s a girl wearing the wiles of a woman in order to achieve a purpose much more sinister than the initial set up would lead one to believe.

Just five minutes into the film, and you’d think it was easy to ascertain the obvious villain: Patrick Wilson, playing a 30-something photographer named Jeff, seduces Page’s 14-year-old Hayley Stark through an online chat window, with the practiced precision of a well-equipped Internet predator. The two agree to meet at a coffee shop, where awkward flirtations quickly lead them back to Jeff’s house. Feeling sick to your stomach yet? You should be, but not because Hayley is dangling on the precipice of statistical tragedy. No, she’s far from being some helpless victim, as Jeff quickly learns when he finds himself waking up in a state of confusion, limbs bound to an office chair as Hayley gleefully rummages through his drawers and cabinets. “You know how they tell us pretty young things not to drink anything we haven’t mixed ourselves? That’s good advice…. for anyone.” Touche. Seems like the only thing more humiliating that being exposed as a pedophile is to be outwitted by the expected target of one’s predatory efforts. Hogtying and drugging Jeff is only the tip of Hayley’s sadistic iceberg: over the course of the next several hours, she subjects him to a series of tortures more at home in Guantanamo Bay than a sleepy suburban neighborhood, including spraying his screaming mouth with chemicals, temporarily suffocating him with cellophane, and attacking him with a taser in the shower.

May December, or murder and dismember?

But Hayley’s plan isn’t merely to make Jeff suffer the consequences of what he might have intended for her. She’s on a mission to find out what happened to Donna Mauer, a local teenager who’s gone missing. Did Jeff have something to do with it? He lives in a house decorated with near-naked pictures pubescent models; he brought Hayley back home and let her drink copious amounts of alcohol while stripping. Most tellingly of all, he has a picture of Donna locked away in a hidden safe, beneath a decorative living room rock garden. Poor Donna likely fell into a trap from which very few victims of sexual violence manage to emerge unscathed, and Hayley is determined to see that justice is served, no matter what lengths she’s forced to go to in Jeff’s kidnapping and torture.

And speaking of torture, do we need to get into detail about the castration scene? Yup, Hayley is so committed to defanging this predator (to use a rather pointed analogy) that she rigs up a makeshift operating table, lashes an unconscious Jeff down to it, and proceeds to undergo such a wicked game of psychological fuckery, it’s hard to know who to keep rooting for. The scene itself is exquisitely shot – all agonizing closeups and angles designed to elicit maximum proxy discomfort. The dialogue exchanged between the two principle actors is a mastery in cat and mouse tension; best of all is when Hayley draws a brilliant comparison between Jeff’s forthcoming mutilation and the anguish suffered by the victims of rape and abuse on a daily basis. Do your friends know? Do your neighbors know? Who can tell just by looking at you that you’ve been subjected to the most vile sort of personal attack?

Should have just signed up for Ashley Madison.

It’s perhaps this sentiment that best exemplifies what sets Hayley’s violent tactics apart from the intent of her would-be attacker. While it’s safe to say her methods are probably too extreme for the To Catch a Predator crowd, her purpose is – on paper, at least – a noble one. You get the sense that she’s adequately prepared for taking down every neighborhood scumbag that slimes his way into her chatroom; there’s more than subtle indication that she’s done all of this before. For a kid not even in high school yet, she sure knows her way around a taser. It’s disturbing, but in a way that renders the viewer in a challenging state of narrative confusion. Indeed, one of very best elements to Hard Candy is that the primary action sequences make it almost impossible to sympathize with one protagonist over another. Even the most strident of feminists probably can’t help but shudder at Jeff’s predicament – sure, he seems to be a major sleeze-ball, but does Hayley really have to go to these lengths just to make him pay for crimes she can’t confirm that he committed?

In the end, one is forced to conclude that Hard Candy is no easy cinematic meal to digest. It’s a gripping, challenging, often-exceedingly painful film to take in. But like Hayley herself, the movie’s genius lies in its ability to construct so much thought-provoking narrative with so little in the way of material tools. Shot for less than a million dollars, the sets are simple, the cast consists mainly of just Page and Wilson (Sandra Oh, who gets top billing alongside the two principle actors, appears in just one fleeting scene). It’s rare to see a story accomplish such a lasting impression with a decidedly minimalist approach. Page’s performance is a hurricane of emotions; she’s the perfect foil to Wilson’s doughy and desperate Jeff, who probably wished he’d kept his freaky tendencies limited to just porn. If Hayley Stark is a prime example of a violent woman, than she represents the very strongest in lashing out to evade victimhood. She is the anger that lives inside us all when we are harmed or abused. As she declares to a defeated Jeff in the film’s climactic scene: “I am every little girl you ever watched, touched, hurt, screwed, killed.”

Emma Kat Richardson is a Detroit native and freelance writer living in Austin, Texas. Her work has appeared in xoJane.com, Bitch, Alternative Press, LaughSpin.com, Real Detroit Weekly, 944, and Bust.com. She’s enough of a comedy nerd and cat lady to have named her Maine Coon Michael Ian Cat. Follow her on twitter: @emmakat.

The Violent Vagina: The Real Horror Behind the ‘Teeth’

It’s a conundrum, one that Dawn faces head (or vagina) on. She is forced to confront these opposing views, and her body reacts the only way it knows how, it bites the penis of society, it castrates the men that want to turn her into something she doesn’t want to be: a sexual young woman.

I get the imagery, but this movie poster doesn’t really have a horror vibe to it.

This guest post by Belle Artiquez appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Teeth (2007) is a horror film that was directed by Mitchell Lichtenstein based on the story of a young girl who finds out she has teeth inside her vagina. Mind blowing stuff, I know. It was not a good movie, it was not even a good story, in fact it was quite the opposite and anybody who has seen it will tell you that it was pretty much one of the worst movies ever. However, I’m one of those people who may hate watching a movie, may even feel bored during it, but will talk about it for months after if the correct themes are there. Teeth is one of those movies, and I’m still under the assumption that many people, myself included for a while, took away from the film something that was irrelevant, we missed the point, we missed the real issues the film was exploring, even if it was done in a very, very bad way.

Dawn, a young virginal, religious girl wishes to stay just that for as long as possible–society rejoices, she is following the rules! She meets a young man at her abstinence group and although he agrees to wait with her, on a romantic date with woodlands and waterfalls he ends up forcing himself on her because she’s still “pure.” Thus begins the sexual assaults literally thrown at the young Dawn. It is during this first forced sexual encounter with a boy she felt safe with that she realizes, to her and his horror, that she has teeth inside her vagina, that literally bite off the boy/rapist’s penis. We get a glimpse of his ripped-off genitals (and it’s not the only time we see gory, bloody castrated penis), so while this movie isn’t directed toward the male gaze in a conventional way (we never see Dawn’s naked body) it might be done in a horrific way.

Something new for the male gaze to enjoy…

Already I’m seeing a lot of messages and themes that are incredibly familiar. To start we have society’s golden girl, the girl that wants to wait, wants to be virtuous and good and clean so that when the right man comes along he won’t feel like he’s gotten soiled goods (I write gritting my own teeth…pun totally intended). Then we have sexual themes thrown at her; she is hit by the very thing that asked her to stay clean, virginal. She is forced to be sexual. She is inundated with sexual activity, as are all women who walk the earth–we are bombarded with images of sexualized women in underwear, in TV and magazine advertisements, in film and music videos, these are telling us that this is what society wants, sexual women. But we know that society also wants us to be virginal women to save ourselves. It’s a conundrum, one that Dawn faces head (or vagina) on. She is forced to confront these opposing views, and her body reacts the only way it knows how, it bites the penis of society, it castrates the men that want to turn her into something she doesn’t want to be: a sexual young woman.

I know, seeing your vagina for the first time can be bizarre, especially if there’s teeth in there, but I promise–you will get over it.

Not only is Dawn violated by a little boy who thought he was man enough to get some from a girl who actively told him she wouldn’t give him anything, she is also abused by her gynecologist, a healthcare professional who is far from professional. During this scene I felt extremely uncomfortable, it was too…familiar. Dawn seeks medical advice about her vaginal teeth, telling the doctor that she thinks ‘there might be something weird going on’ and I’m only going to assume that it was her first visit (she’s a virgin remember) so probably felt a wave of emotions from fear to pure horror at what was going to happen. Many first visits for women are filled with these emotions. But when her doctor takes his gloves off and continues to mess around down there, things really get weird and the wonderful doctor ends up having his fingers bitten off (serves him right too). Now, I’m not going to say this was exactly like my first experience with a gynecologist, far from it, however, it was equally as uncomfortable, and to this day I feel like something was amiss. I was nervous,very very nervous. I was literally a ball of emotions, on my own, and I’m only going to assume the male doctor noticed this because instead of offering a female nurse, or even trying to make me feel less exposed, he called in two female nurses to literally hold my legs open as he examined me, with no blanket, no comfort, just a horrifying shame that has been with me since that day (over a decade ago). So I understand why that scene was so horrific for me and not other people who laughed their way through it, but this only serves to prove that women are capable of understanding the discomfort of the plot, of the numerous sexual assaults Dawn faces, the reaction she has to her own body (hating and simultaneously fearing it) and then her final understanding that she has to own it, be in control of it and her sexuality. She has to have agency in her violent vagina because she knows how powerful it is.

If only we all had her power, and yes it pretty much is a super power!

She arrives, shaken and terrified after her gyno visit at a boys house, she takes a bath and comes out to find that said boy has lit around a hundred candles, stuck on ridiculous music and is waiting expectantly for sex. She is still shaken (who can blame her?) so he offers her a pill and wine to relax, or drug her. She assumes he has her best interest at heart so accepts, I know right? More fool her..but I did say it was a terrible movie. It gets even worse as this encounter unfolds. She falls asleep/unconscious only to wake and find him fondling her breasts, and although he asks her for consent and she tells him not to stop she is still under the influence of drugs and alcohol so cannot legally give consent. They have sex. He ‘conquers’ her, becomes the ‘hero’ (his words!) and gets to keep his penis. The next morning things don’t go so smooth, during consensual sex he answers the phone still inside her (big mistake) and begins to gloat and brag about it. His penis meets the same fate as the previous two men and he ends up being not quite the conquering hero he first thought, he will be stroking this male ego no longer.

I honestly don’t know why there’s a crunch, but again, bad movie.

From here Dawn eventually rids herself of her abstinence ring; if society wants a sexual girl they were going to get one, but only on her terms. If men are going to force it, they’re going to lose it, simple as that. The male fear of powerful vaginas really takes on a whole new meaning with this film; it portrays the many anxieties men and the patriarchy have where women are concerned. If women start to realize their inherent power, their violent vagina’s, then some men fear they will be cut down, castrated because of it. The fear lies within the notion that both sexes cannot have equal control. He will take (think virginity), she will give, not the other way around. That’s the dynamic society is used to, so a horror within the film is also connected to the fact that men fear the vagina and its power, they fear what will happen to them and their masculinity if the vagina (women) acknowledges its own power. The film blatantly gives shots of castrated male genitals, bloodied, and disgusting (I’m not a gore fan), and while many men will feel a kind of sympathy pain for the characters (who are rapists by the way), and apologise for showing it in blogs because the writer too felt a pain when posting it, I’m left wondering why women are expected to watch rape in film and TV and not feel the same? Because let’s be honest, it’s not everyday that we see mutilated male genitals, but the violent rape of a women which portrays the same kind of genital pain…yeah that’s pretty common. But for some reason neither of these things represent the same pain.

Dawn indeed does end up using her violent vagina as a tool of revenge and protection for other women. She actively engages with men whose intentions are not good just so she can castrate them in order to protect the future women these men would harm. She totally owns it, she takes on the violent nature of her unique vagina and uses it for good.

Now that’s the face of a woman who is owning her sexuality, even if it is a violent one!

Teeth was categorized as a feminist horror film, and I can see why many people didn’t quite agree with that–Dawn is sexually assaulted a lot, she is not in control of her own sexual behaviour (for most of the movie) and she certainly isn’t a feminist herself; I don’t think the literal biting off of men’s penises constitutes as feminist film. However, her having to come to terms with a part of herself that society both worships and fears is quite the feminist argument. One that rings true to nearly every woman on the planet. On the surface though this film just seems like a crude horror that involves a deadly vagina, a violent, razor sharp vagina. But maybe the horror of this film lies somewhere in the messages it portrays; maybe the real horror is the shit this poor girl, who just wanted to play by the rules, has to put up with on a daily basis, and as such, what women everywhere have little option but to just deal with, from the constant sexualization of women in every aspect of society, the slut shaming, the butt grabs instead of handshakes, the boob stares instead of eye contact, the cat-calling and street harassment, to the flat out sexual assault, the (not at all) blurred lines of consent, the daily beating down of women for having vaginas and showing some skin. Maybe that was the true horror of this movie and not the fact that a girl who endured all of this had the ability to cut some men down with the very thing they thought they had control of and a right to: her violent and powerful vagina.

Don’t they all…

Belle Artiquez graduated from film and literature studies in Dublin and since has continued her analysis and critique of film, TV, and literature (mainly in the area of gender politics and representations) as well as cultural and societal critiques on such blog spots as Hubpages and WordPress.

‘High Tension’: Rethinking Female Sexuality and Subjectivity Through Violence

Rather than pander to the male gaze, Aja decides to reject these scopophilic pleasures in favour of championing female subjectivity, but he also chooses to reject heteronormativity by having the lesbian desires of Marie drive the plot of the film. Interestingly, it is these desires and subjective experiences that both initiate the use of violence and intensify the representation of violence throughout.

This guest post by Laura Minor appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Named one of TIME magazine’s “10 most ridiculously violent films” [1], Alexandre Aja’s 2003 slasher High Tension (originally titled Haute Tension) is a visceral delight, a horrific spectacle of generic excess. Yet with the film’s synopsis describing the leading character, Marie, as a “beautiful young Frenchwoman,” High Tension could have easily been seen in GQ’s article “The 25 Sexiest Violent Women in Film” [2]. Rather than pander to the male gaze, Aja decides to reject these scopophilic pleasures in favour of championing female subjectivity, but he also chooses to reject heteronormativity by having the lesbian desires of Marie drive the plot of the film. Interestingly, it is these desires and subjective experiences that both initiate the use of violence and intensify the representation of violence throughout.

Before examining the film’s treatment of gender, sexuality and violence, however, its basic narrative needs to be understood. High Tension revolves around Marie (Cécile De France) and Alex (Maïwenn Besco), two college students who travel to Alex’s parents’ farmhouse in the French countryside so that they can relax and study in peace. After arriving at the farmhouse and settling down for the night, Marie begins masturbating in bed, presumably fantasising about Alex after she inadvertently spies on her in the shower. The killer arrives simultaneously and begins brutally massacring Alex’s family without reason. He then abducts Alex after blinding her, and Marie consequently emerges as the Final Girl, the protagonist who must save the day. What ensues is a cat-and-mouse chase, with the killer eventually hunting down Marie for the archetypal finale – a one-on-one confrontation between the protagonist and antagonist. However, when Marie ends the killer’s life, it is revealed that she is in fact the killer, thereby rupturing the classical protagonist/antagonist relationship.

Aja’s ending has received strong, negative criticism for its twist, but the purpose of this ending is to not merely shock. Of course, if we read it through a conservative lens, then Marie’s transgressions serve to maintain and perpetuate heterosexist discourse, as the lesbian protagonist is revealed to be the monster; she is the outsider who has destroyed the nuclear family. Indeed according to Harry M. Benshoff,

both movie monsters and homosexuals have existed chiefly in shadowy closets and when they do emerge from these proscribed places into the sunlit world they cause panic and fear. Their closets uphold and reinforce binaries of gender and sexuality that structure Western thought. To create a broad analogy, monster is to “normality” as homosexual is to heterosexual [3].

While this has been true for past representations, Marie’s psychotic creation of “Le Tueur” (meaning “The Killer” in English) complicates the idea that she is the tangible monster. This unnamed, unidentifiable man is the one who has committed cinematic sadism, and although the monster is a manifestation of Marie’s latent desires, he also personifies the fear and anger she feels about her own sexuality. This is implied at the beginning of the film through dialogue and lighting – when Marie and Alex arrive at the farmhouse, Alex tells Marie she’ll “end up an old maid” because of her lack of interest in men. Understandably, Marie reacts with dejection. Her face is deliberately shadowed by the darkness outside as she solemnly says “Don’t start with that”. Indeed though subtle, it is obvious that Alex’s ingrained, societal beliefs have affected her deeply, the feeling that she is an outcast, that she should settle down and find a nice husband. To have her best friend and love interest speak in such a way does not excuse murder (that much is obvious), but it could explain why Marie constructs an individual that represents heteronormativity (a white, heterosexual middle-aged man) committing these violent acts instead.

This fabricated part of her psyche, in some ways, conforms to Halberstam’s notion of “imagined violence,” which is defined as “the fantasy of unsanctioned eruptions of aggression” [4]. More specifically, Halberstam argues that “imagined violence does not advocate lesbian or female aggression but it might complicate an assumed relationship between women and passivity or feminism and pacifism” [4]. To imagine the possibility of female violence is to create a new source of pleasure for women, as resistance on-screen is a reaction against gender/sexuality-based prejudices. High Tension, however, takes this level of imagination to a disturbed and distorted level, as Marie/Le Tueur brutally kill an innocent family. Yet it could be argued that this (fe)male violence symbolises Marie’s anger, or more specifically, Marie’s inability to control the rage she feels about heteronormativity upholding “traditional family values” (these being strictly defined gender roles and heterosexuality). After all, she cannot control this part of her consciousness, as she desires to kill this part of her consciousness and rescue Alex.

The “imagined violence” against the heteronormative male within is a significant, internal battle that culminates in Marie defeating Le Tueur with a fence post covered in barbed wire. She uses this aggressive, phallic symbol to “challenge powerful white heterosexual masculinity and create a cultural coalition of postmodern terror” [4], the most significant aspect of “imagined violence.” Of course, such a reading is not so simple in a film that constructs a schizophrenic narrative and a schizophrenic character, but High Tension is aware of its supposed inconsistencies, which again can be seen in its ending. Before Le Tueur’s death, he wields his chainsaw in an attempt to kill Alex, only for his weapon to be replaced by Marie’s sweet and soft kiss. The act of (fe)male violence and gentleness in this scene unifies the binaries of masculinity and femininity, and therefore complicates the definitions of monstrousness and gender. For this reason, as Joshua Cohen has argued, High Tension “poses somewhat of a problem for the critic interested in allocating monstrosity into a neatly defined category such as masculine or feminine. Rather, High Tension requires a spectator whom assumes that gender is a subject that transcends the limitations of binary oppositions” [5].

Indeed because Aja has forced us to intimately identify with Marie and then Alex via specific camerawork, these acts of violence are intensified, but so are subtle character movements. The final scene is particularly significant in this regard; when Marie is in a psychiatric hospital, Alex watches her through a one-way mirror and extends her hand to the screen, almost as if she is visiting a lover in prison. Here we are forced to identify with Alex as the camera slowly follows her hand, and when she asks a doctor whether Marie can see her through the mirror, it is clear that she is also asking this question for us, the extra-diegetic spectators. Marie answers this question soon after. No, she cannot see Alex, she can sense her, and by extension she can sense the audience. Her face beams with delight as she opens her arms in a sudden forceful yet loving gesture, and the camera lurches back in horror with Alex, thus forcing us as spectators to mimic these movements. The jerky, violent actions of Marie are therefore ambiguous. Whilst we are initially drawn to her by the placement of Alex’s hand, we are then pushed away by her affection/violence. Perhaps it would be reading too much into the ending to view Alex’s hand gesture as an act of repressed sexuality, but it is interesting that Alex, now the audience surrogate, is both drawn to and disgusted by Marie’s affectionate/violent disposition. In this regard, High Tension offers no concrete resolution as to how we should view the protagonist. Instead, it offers multiple readings of gender, sexuality, and violence that typify our contemporary, heterogeneous culture. Indeed despite the monstrous actions of Marie, underneath the surface, Alex and the audience know that she cannot be simplistically defined – it is why we have returned to her at the hospital.

Overall, to define High Tension as conservative would be problematic, as we would have to ignore the ways in which it has transcended stereotypical ideals of gender and sexuality through acts of violence, whether these acts be blatant (such as the aggressive methods of murder) or subtle (such as the sudden erratic movements of Marie). It is certainly clear that the narrative does not advocate male or familial genocide as a strategy for achieving women’s emancipation. If anything, the film seeks to place itself in-between the rich, textured spaces of female subjectivity and identity, spaces that are not always straightforward, rational or prototypical.

Footnotes

[1] Sanburn, Josh. “Top 10 Ridiculously Violent Movies.” TIME., September 2, 2010. http://entertainment.time.com/2010/09/03/top-10-ridiculously-violent-movies/.

[2] “The 25 Sexiest Violent Women in Film”. GQ., June 30, 2009. http://www.gq.com/gallery/list-sexy-women-movies-violent-angelina-jolie-halle-berry-jessica-alba-slideshow.

[3] Benshoff, Harry M (1997). Monsters in the Closet: Homosexuality and the Horror Film. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press.

[4] Halberstam, Judith (1993). ‘Imagined Violence/Queer Violence: Representations of Rage and Resistance’. Social Text 37, pp.187-201.

[5] Cohen, Joshua. ‘‘’Will You Still Love Me in the Morning?’: Gender Representation and Monstrosity in Alexandre Aja’s High Tension.” Fear, Horror, and Terror, 2^nd Global Conference. Oxford: United Kingdom, 2008. Print.

Laura Minor is currently undertaking a Master’s in Film and Television Studies. She runs a blog at lrjdmnr.wordpress.com where she discusses feminist media studies, film/television aesthetics and genre theory.

Learn from the Future: ‘Battle Royale’

This guest post by Belle Artiquez appears as part of our theme week on Dystopias.

We have all seen dystopian futures represented in film and literature: desolate landscapes with survivors of some war-torn/zombie apocalypse struggling to live their bleak lives under the rule of brutal and selfish dictators who are only out for themselves. It’s a theme we are well-accustomed to, and there are numerous examples of different dystopian futures: zombie apocalypses are in full swing at the moment in TV and film (The Walking Dead, The Last Ship, World War Z), but then there is also the fall of religion (The Book of Eli), the loss of fertility (Children of Men), and the loss of resources such as water and oil (Mad Max).

The examples of how humanity could fall are in such abundance that when we get a film that doesn’t necessarily look that different to our own current world, it may not be the harsh dystopian world that we are so used to seeing on screen. Battle Royale (2000) is that film, and yet its reality is somewhat harsher than these other dystopian themes. Directed by Kinji Fukasaku, and adapted from a book of the same title, the apocalyptic film portrays a totalitarian government that rules Japan, where communication with the western world is forbidden, and every year one school class is chosen to be pitted against each other in the ultimate fight to the death as a way of controlling the young generations and reminding them that they cannot rebel, they cannot be free, and they will only ever be restrained by their government.

The actual Battle is set on a highly guarded, isolated island, and the chosen class (a ninth grade class) is brought to it and ordered to fight in a zero sum game of death in a highly publicized slaughter game where there will be only one winner. The children are given one weapon each ranging from sauce pans to rifles and survival gear with maps and other necessities as they navigate through the island, of which there are interchangeable “forbidden zones.” Around their necks, a collar with the power to instantly kill is fitted to make sure any student disobeying the rules or being in a death zone at the wrong time will be killed. It appears to all to be a completely unfair setup, but this is a harsh dystopian world, so what do we expect?

9th grade class photo, looking like students not murderers — Ninth grade class photo–all looking like students, not murderers.

Not only does the film portray existing anxieties for Japan, it also represents the severe landscape of our current era–the fact that people struggle to survive already, that some are unfairly given better opportunities regardless of value (portrayed through the weapons the students are given) and are almost set up for failure. The fact that a ninth grade class is always the chosen class depicts the hardship and suffering of actual ninth grade classes in Japan currently. Up until that grade, students need only be in attendance to proceed to the next grade, but suddenly at ninth grade they are faced with extremely difficult exams in order to get a placement in a more prestigious school, putting immense pressure on students who are suddenly pitted against each other for these few places. Apart from this obvious nod, the film also suggests that we are already currently set up for failure worldwide. Our banking system for instance is the biggest fraud of our time, where people are given loans of money that doesn’t actually exist only to have to work even harder to repay the non-existent money back with actual hard cash. We are told that we need to earn a living doing jobs that we hate, instead of living and doing what makes us happy. We are born into constant monitoring, not being able to move around the world without asking permission or being watched. Governments may not be totalitarian, authoritarian ones but they certainly act in similar ways under the guise of protectors. These are all aspects of what the students of Battle Royale have to cope with. They are watched not only by the controllers of the battle, but by the entire country, as if nothing more than a reality show.

The “Forbidden Zones” also illustrate the ways in which laws are put in place. We know that most laws are put into place for our benefit–murder, theft, and abuse are all illegal for the good of the people–so that we feel safe in our day-to-day lives. However, governments have been known to create laws for their own benefit, take for example the new law created in Australia that states it is illegal for detention centre workers to report child abuse, rape and human rights violations. Or the American law that states it is illegal to film and report animal abuse on farms, establishing severe criminal sanctions for those who would report the abuse as opposed to those causing the abuse. These laws are not in place to protect the people, they are conceived in order to protect the corporations in charge, the authorities. This use of law-making is of course related to the “Forbidden Zones,” which are set up so the game will run within the three day time limit, and also for the entertainment of viewers watching from the safety of their homes. The students have not only to fight and kill their classmates with whatever they were given but they also have to worry about where they go, at what times.

The leader and man in charge of the battle is also the representative of our current powers/governments/politicians. Kitano is the man who tells the students the rules of the game, as well as handing them their weapons and survival gear, and who likewise has no problem killing two students before stating it is actually against the rules for him to do so. By breaking the rules in such a nonchalant manner Kitano shows the class that they must obey a hypocritical generation in order to survive. He even goes as far as asking the students to be friends with him, establishing a false sense of security, the contrast between being friends with this man and then witnessing him kill two of them is stark and also conveys the same governmental control that most countries understand, the “We are here to help you” attitude while they only ever help themselves. Another facet of this dynamic relationship refers to the fact that the classmates are all friends with histories and memories together and now they must let go of all of that and slaughter each other. However, not all students have the ability to do this and end up committing suicide as a way out of this and also as an escape of the imminent betrayal they will face.

Kitano threatens a student, and shows the hypocritical nature of authority. — Kitano threatens a student and shows the hypocritical nature of authority.

And just as the film articulates these contrasting attitudes and dilemmas with regard to controlling powers and zero sum attitudes, so too does it address these issues within themes of gender, sexuality and authority. Battle Royale does stereotype its female and male characters to conform to society’s ideas of femininity and masculinity. Most of the women are rendered weak, helpless, and in need of protection. Where some girls need the help of their male friends to survive (Noriko, whose protection is passed on when her initial protector is killed), others cling to each other in the hopes that some sort of sisterhood will unite them and make them strong enough to survive, showing a kind of stupidity on their part since there can only be one winner. These united girls end up in anarchy as one of them eats a poisoned dinner meant for a male classmate and suddenly they are all slaughtering each other without even trying to overcome the misunderstanding. In total contrast to this we see male students working together in perfect harmony even with a few moments of misunderstandings as a few of them work together to get the death collars deactivated. The male characters do their best to protect the female students, but only the ones that have strong emotional relationships with the men.

Noriko hides behind male student for protection portraying the fragile nature of the class's female students — Noriko hides behind a male student for protection, portraying the fragile nature of the class’s female students.

The only strong female character also happens to be presented as the villain of the piece (as does the previous winner of the game who happens to be a young girl, although we only see her briefly at the beginning), and this is possibly because she is independent, sexual, and in control. Mitsuko is violent, she quickly becomes a killing machine in order to survive, and even uses her sexuality to do so. A loner in her class before the slaughter, a victim of sexual abuse and a murderer at a young age (in self defense against the man who was going to abuse her), she now just “doesn’t want to be the loser anymore” and uses everything at her disposal to win. This includes her obvious sexuality, which she uses in ways similar to a Venus fly trap. A good deceiver, she entices a two male classmates and while they feel at ease, happy to be getting any sexual action, she kills them. Now who’s at fault for this? The girl who was just playing the brutal game like all the other students in order to survive, or the boys who stupidly thought that sex was worth the risk? Yet Mitsuko is the villain, which may actually just be another acknowledgment of current gender expectation in Japan, which is where the film and book are based on after all. Gender roles are an important part of Japanese society: men are expected to work hard, and housewives are considered valuable for their child rearing abilities; this could be why we see the group of girls acting in ways similar to the housewife, while the male students work to either outright win the game or fight the authority by breaking the collars. Traits associated with individualism such as assertiveness and self-reliance is not seen in high regard, which is why we are shown Mitsuko in a negative, villainous way. So for a film that nearly entirely describes our current living situation, it could be said that the gender roles and stereotypes too are another way of acknowledging existing gender positions and expectations in Japan.

While the strong, independent female characters are shown in negative lights.

This is certainly a terrifying film; we are presented with a nightmarish portrayal of a hyper-violent, dystopian, totalitarian world we would be afraid to be a part of, yet we are also delivered a unique depiction of the word we are already a part of and that in itself is the most nightmarish aspect of Battle Royale. The film is an acknowledgment of not only the world we live in right now but also of the human condition and the gender roles that are currently prevalent in a society that is supposed to be based on equality; however, it is anything but. We need to look to such films and recognise that although they are fictional, and depictions of a harsh dystopia, they are also reflections of our present issues in society. They are showing us how bleak and grim our own realities are without the slaughter games and authoritarian powers that make the Battle Royale world so frightening.

Congratulations for being chosen to take part in this horror game called life!

‘Outlander’ and A Modern Man

“What is her power over you?” Randall chides Jamie during his psychological torture. As manly as Jamie likens to be, he long ago surrendered himself to Claire’s power over him. In his deteriorated state, only a woman can heal this broken man. While Jamie’s brokenness is wholly justifiable, his extremist way of thinking shows his ideas of masculinity will need to continue to evolve if he wants to fully regain his soul.

This guest post by Alize Emme appears as part of our theme week on Masculinity.

Setting aside everything there is to know about the current television landscape, the Starz series Outlander might seem like a completely modern story about two people navigating the start of a new relationship — minus the time travel, two husbands, and lack of indoor plumbing. Outlander, the tale of Claire Randall (Caitriona Balfe) the Englishwoman who accidentally leaves the 20th century and her husband when she travels 200 years back in time and meets Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan) and a love she cannot deny, actually is a modern portrayal of sex and gender on TV. But what makes Outlander modern is also what makes it rare: Masculinity as told for the female gaze.

Ronald D. Moore, Outlander’s creator, deserves credit for fully developing the masculine men Diana Gabaldon established in the book series of the same name. On one end of the masculinity spectrum there are characters like Frank Randall (Tobias Menzies), Claire’s husband, the scholarly gentleman who is considerably more sexually timid than his wife, and Ian (Steven Cree), Jamie’s brother-in-law who is remorseful after murdering a man and befriends a criminal because he’s the only one who treats him like a man. On the polar opposite end of the scale are Dougal MacKenzie (Graham McTavish), kin to Jamie and recreational adulterer at large, and Captain Jack Randall (also Menzies), an 18th century version of Dog the Bounty Hunter mixed with one of the Hulks buttoned into a red tailored coat whose very layered homoerotic tendencies make him a predator for women and men alike. Somewhere in the middle of this virility brigade is Jamie Fraser.

“There has never been a man on screen quite like this Jamie character. He’s tough and brash, heroic and noble, but he’s also invested in love and intimacy.”

Jamie completely redefines the nuances of masculinity and what it means to be a man on screen. Where the traditional television narrative would dictate Jamie pushes, he instead pulls; where he could take the easy road, he takes the high road. Jamie challenges Jamie as much as any outside force and reveals himself a better man each time. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s built like a Greek god, with the hair of a cherub, eyes like the sky, and more often than not is covered in blood, sweat, or mud. Outwardly, Jamie is masculinity personified.

It’s hard to look so good while wearing a skirt, let’s be honest.

Inwardly, Jamie reserves no ego about being a virgin exploring sex and sexuality with his new bride and more experienced partner, Claire, on their wedding night. He takes the warnings from his fellow male friends that women don’t care for sex to heart when he sees this could be true for Claire. Jamie doesn’t just use Claire for his own agenda and roll over and leave once he’s satisfied; he cares for her in every sense that there is to be a lover. He wants to learn from her. He is swept up by the mysticism of their unusual love and doesn’t mind how it looks to serve Claire publicly or please her privately.

To the hyper-masculine Dougal, who knows the “importance” of keeping a woman waiting so she doesn’t fancy herself with too much power or control over her husband, this is a sign of weakness. But Jamie’s defiance of the MacKenzie Clan’s male domineering agenda is clear. “I said I was completely under your power and happy to be there,” he tells Claire after eagerly returning to her.

The rules of how to be a man have been clearly ingrained in Jamie. He struggles with the idea of how to uphold a masculine image while also respecting his wife. While Claire persists with being a huge factor in challenging Jamie’s pre-set thinking. Where Jamie sees fit to reprimand Claire for putting herself and others in danger by archaically spanking her, Claire bucks at this tradition and uses it as an opportunity to renegotiate the rules of their relationship.

Claire will not remain idle while Jamie follows blindly the regressive ways of his predecessors. She challenges him. She reminds him a woman’s voice is just as important as a man’s, that wives are not property. She is the force that whispers in his ear to pull when the status quo says to push. Instead of digging in his heels, Jamie takes a vulnerable turn and admits to Claire that the thought of losing her scares him. He is a man who can show emotion and understands that love allows for forgiveness.

“I saw a ridged man bend,” Jamie says before realizing traditions are not set in stone. Jamie comes to the conclusion that in order to make his marriage with Claire formidable, he cannot continue to abide by the rules of older generations. His mindfulness leads to the pledge that he will never again raise a rebellious hand to his wife.

By nature Jamie is a protector and he fiercely protects women. He takes two floggings to protect his sister, he takes a beating to protect Leary (Nell Hudson), and he’s married Claire to protect her from the Red Coats. Jamie quite easily fills out the honorable male role of providing security. The idea that women want to feel secure is sometimes correlated with money, but as true love stories go, Jamie can offer Claire only the skill of his two bare hands.

“You need not be sacred of me nor anyone else as long as I am with you,” Jamie tells her shortly after arriving at Castle Leoch. Despite the wealth of safety Jamie provides for Claire, she also saves him. She is as much his savior as he is her hero. She sews his wounds, she rescues him when he’s captured, but most importantly, her love sparks new life within Jamie. She gives him something no one else can; with her he is whole. Jamie doesn’t shy away from Claire’s ability to help him. But he does show resignation when he cannot provide for her.

After realizing his father’s savings, originally endowed for Jamie and Claire to raise a family, must now go to staving off a low-life criminal out for the bounty on Jamie’s head, Jamie tells Claire, “I’ve let you down”–words most men on TV never utter. His humility shows the side of a man who understands the weight of his actions and the reach of their consequences.

Jamie is an amalgamation for this time. He has taken the old traditions of patriarchy and retained only what is needed to be a survivor. He has expanded his own notions of male dominance and marriage for the woman he loves. He is tender, but still commanding. In many senses, Jamie is the evolution of the perfect modern man. And instead of being the hero at the end of the story, he is in turn, the victim.

Throughout this first season of Outlander, Jamie and Randall have crossed paths in a twisted juxtaposition of showmanship. Both of these men tether the series as pillars of opposing masculinity. Randall is filled with brute strength fueled by a sadistic mind charging at anything he wants to possess. He holds a sadistic domination over Jamie having personally whipped Jamie within an inch of his life.

Jamie and Randall, a long and storied history.

During an exchange at Fort William, Randall taunts Jamie: “Who’s the man in this match, Fraser?” Jamie’s unwillingness to fight Randall is seen as weakness; he is less a man for not desiring bloodshed. While war and murder are commonplace in this time period, Jamie derives no pleasure from the passing of men, like Randall who feeds off the weakness of other. Jamie is a valiant warrior on the battlefield but when the opportunity presents itself for Jamie to avenge himself with Randall, he doesn’t follow through. “It never occurred to me to kill a helpless man, even one such as Randall,” Jamie says. This logic makes the brutality of their final meeting all the more agonizing.

As these things go on television, women are shown as the victims of rape and sexual assault. Outlander has plenty of this as well, and no matter how accurate it is to the time period, the bodice-ripping and men treating women like objects is still the show’s greatest fault. Men prove themselves in this era by taking whatever they can dominate, women or otherwise. And in a different twist on this theme, the show’s final culmination of sexual violence occurs not between a man and a woman, but between two men.

Through disturbing mind games and gruesome treatment, Randall breaks Jamie. For a series where the entire show is a metaphor centered on power and dominance — countries over countries, men over women, lairds over tenants — this is the ultimate domination.

The two men who have foiled each other the entire season act out the most gruesome rendition of good versus evil, Christ imagery and all, and evil triumphs. For Jamie and his traditional masculine mentality, this is a loss only death can free him from. He is defeated, victimized, and literally crippled, and the one person who can save him is Claire.

How do you redefine masculinity on television? Outlander has only scratched the surface of potential for shows to portray more evolved men on screen. Jamie is the kind of man women want to watch. But he should also the kind of man other men want to emulate. A little old, a little new–a modern man for our modern world.

Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.