White Feminism – Bitch Flicks

Why, as an Intersectional Feminist, I Can’t Get Behind the TV Land ‘Heathers’ Reboot

The television reboot will give marginalized people power that they don’t have in real life. As a result, they cast cis straight white people as the oppressed underclass. This misrepresentation of the real world will ultimately work to reinforce the fallacious idea that marginalized groups are “taking over” and gaining power over white, cis, straight, or otherwise privileged people. … I am not at all against a ‘Heathers’ reboot, but I want one that is progressive and intersectional, one that expands on the feminism of the original rather than scaling it back.

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

The cult classic status of the 1988 black comedy movie Heathers is firmly cemented in modern culture. The particular combination of high school hierarchy and gallows humor has struck a chord with millions of teenagers throughout the decades. The advent of Netflix has exposed the film to a whole new audience, and its campiness lent itself well to a highly popular Off-Broadway musical adaptation. Maybe most importantly, its portrayal of the power of young women has made it a favorite of many smart and self-aware girls, from its creation to today.

As with most cult classics, Heathers is ripe for a television reboot, and TV Land jumped at the opportunity. The network ordered a pilot for an anthology series based on a script by Jason Micallef and executive produced by Tom Rosenberg and Gary Lucchesi of Lakeshore Entertainment. But those who were hoping for a modern update to a dark, goofy, yet empowering story remain disappointed. The announced concept of the TV series adaptation makes extreme changes to the premise of Heathers, and not in a good way.

The original Heathers follows the top tier of the high school hierarchy, a group of three wealthy girls all named Heather and one girl named Veronica. Veronica (Winona Ryder) is somewhat of an outsider; she likes the benefits and privileges of being popular, but she has conflicted feelings about their treatment of those they consider beneath them. She starts to divulge her disillusionment to J.D. (Christian Slater), a mysterious, trench coat-clad new kid. After a fight with Heather Chandler (Kim Walker), Veronica decides to play a prank on her by serving her a mug of milk and orange juice. But when J.D. pours a mug of liquid drain cleaner, ostensibly as a joke, Veronica accidentally takes it to her instead, inadvertently killing Heather. Panicked, J.D. convinces Veronica to help him stage her suicide by forging a note. Throughout the rest of the film, it begins to become clear to Veronica that J.D. is orchestrating these killings because he feels disenfranchised by the system of power; he is trying to shake up the social hierarchy by destroying everyone in it.

Heathers represents a certain set of feminist ideals that makes it an empowering experience for young women. While the film engages heavily in the “mean girls” trope, the inclusion of the protagonist (Veronica) in the antagonistic group (the Heathers) subverts the standard popular vs. unpopular dichotomy. But even though Veronica originally believes the Heathers to be evil and worthy of punishment, she comes to realize that there is a bigger threat – J.D. The Heathers are mean girls, but they are just that. They don’t deserve to die. In this way, the movie allows Veronica to condemn the practices of the Heathers while still acknowledging their humanity.

Ultimately, the feminism of the film is centered on Veronica’s journey to finding and reclaiming her own power. As Alize Emme discusses in her Bitch Flicks article, Veronica is initially unable to stand up for anyone, even herself, against the Heathers. But at the end of the movie, she literally saves their lives. By the time she finishes with J.D. — the greater evil — Veronica has the strength to denounce the conniving, judgmental ways of the Heathers. She goes on to engage in friendships with Martha Dunnstock (Carrie Lynn) and Betty Finn (Renée Estevez), girls who were considered beneath the Heathers. By saving the Heathers, but rejecting their hierarchy and condescension towards other women, Veronica proves to have grown as both a person and a feminist.

The television adaptation of Heathers, however, presents a set of competing, feminist ideals that, if the show progresses in the way the film does, will send a message of exclusivity and non-intersectionality in feminism. In this new version of Heathers, the TV series will portray a world that does not exist in reality. In the updated Westerburg High School, the popular crowd, including the Heathers, will be made up of marginalized people. The new Heather Chandler (Melanie Field), the queen bee, will be a plus-size woman. The new Heather Duke (Brendan Scannell), the bookish turned diabolical one, will be “Heath,” who identifies as genderqueer. The new Heather McNamara (Jasmine Mathews), the cheerleader, will be a Black lesbian. And if they are the oppressors in this new world, then who will be the oppressed? White, thin, cis, straight people.

In fact, the new Veronica is Grace Victoria Cox, a talented young actress who fits very much within the white, thin, stereotypically feminine beauty ideal of Hollywood. James Scully, the new J.D., looks more like Kurt and Ram, the football players from the original movie, than the murderous high school outcast that Christian Slater once embodied. In the world that the TV series is creating, the diverse members of the Heathers will seek to torment and tear down these vulnerable, pretty white kids, leading them to stage their murders.

While this premise was likely chosen because it seemed edgy, this restructuring of the power dynamic between marginalized people and privileged people is ill-advised and, frankly, irresponsible. The writers and producers (who, notably, all appear to be white men) have used this concept to give marginalized people power that they don’t have in real life. As a result, they cast cis straight white people as the oppressed underclass. This misrepresentation of the real world will ultimately work to reinforce the fallacious idea that marginalized groups are “taking over” and gaining power over white, cis, straight, or otherwise privileged people.

If the television adaptation follows the plot of the original movie, then Veronica and J.D. will be killing and staging the suicide of at least one of the Heathers, as well as other members of the popular crowd. J.D. enacts this plot because he feels oppressed by the high school hierarchy, and he seeks to destroy all those who have power within that system in order to gain power himself. In the original film, which is virtually devoid of identity politics, this notion is extremely troubling, but realistic, as proven by real-life cases of high school shootings. In the world of the TV Land Heathers, this plot makes J.D. into, at best, an internet troll, and at worst, a violent alt-right vigilante. J.D. perceives the Black, queer, non-thin Heathers as having too much power, more than they deserve. His plot to kill them reads as an effort to take them down a notch, to put them in their place as marginalized people, so that he, a privileged white boy, can rise to his rightful place at the top. In the television adaptation of Heathers, J.D. is not just a messed-up kid. He’s a misogynist, homophobic, white supremacist. In a world where such rhetoric is becoming increasingly common, the idea that a purportedly comedic television show would represent such a character is disturbing and endlessly problematic.

Additionally, this restructure of the hierarchy causes Veronica’s journey to become problematic as well. One could argue that J.D.’s implicit racism, sexism, and homophobia will not be an issue, as he is clearly set as the antagonist, and because the protagonist (Veronica) ultimately rejects his ideas and plans. But again, if the plot of the TV adaptation is parallel to the film, Veronica’s rejection of J.D.’s extremism will only result in a more insidious form of white supremacy. As mentioned previously, Veronica ultimately saves the Heathers but rejects their cruelty, choosing instead to befriend the kind but unpopular Martha. In the series adaptation, Veronica’s decision will act as an affirmation of White Feminism. Even as Veronica rejects J.D.’s racism, sexism, and homophobia, her ultimate choice will be to ditch her marginalized friends for the other privileged white kids of the adaptation’s false underclass. Veronica can claim a lack of prejudice because she didn’t want them to die, but she doesn’t want to include them in her personal life. She, like many white feminists, doesn’t seek to understand what they may be going through or how their experiences may have differed from her own. Instead, she decides that she would just rather hang out with people like her — cis, straight, white, and thin. In the original film, her decision to befriend Martha, who’s plus size, was a way of confirming the value of every person, regardless of their outward appearance or social standing. In the adaptation, it will act as an exclusion of marginalized people from Veronica’s conception of worthiness.

When a movie becomes as iconic as Heathers, remakes and revivals are inevitable. Any production company that takes on such a project has a responsibility to take the current sociopolitical climate into account. It appears that TV Land and Lakeshore Entertainment have attempted to do so with the inclusion of people of color, LGBTQ, and plus size characters. But the concept of the Heathers television adaptation uses these characters to give legitimacy to false ideas about the power of minorities and marginalized groups, as well as giving credence to the idea of White Feminism. Though the original Heathers features all white characters and largely avoids commenting on race or sexual orientation (although it does feature the deaths of two homophobic jocks, staged as the suicides of gay lovers), it culminated in a feminist, inclusive shake-up of the social order. But the ill-conceived premise of the TV Land reboot will only serve to reinforce power structures and harmful gender and racial dynamics that already exist everywhere. By restructuring Westerburg High School’s social order, the Heathers series will only solidify the inequality of our social order. The one that sets minorities and marginalized folks beneath cis, straight, white people; the one that perpetuates hate and intolerance; the one we all live with everyday.

While a pilot is currently being filmed, the television adaptation of Heathers has not yet been ordered to series. Hopefully, the studio will take the sociopolitical context into account when choosing whether to continue with the adaptation. I am not at all against a Heathers reboot, but I want one that is progressive and intersectional, one that expands on the feminism of the original rather than scaling it back. Ideally, the ill-advised concept behind the TV Land adaptation will be abandoned, and then the world can have the new, forward-thinking, inclusive Heathers that it deserves. This time, let’s make Veronica a Black lesbian.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

“I’m a Veronica”: Power and Transformation Through Female Friendships in Heathers

Veronica Decides Not to Die — Heathers: The Proto-Mean Girls

Cult Films that Changed Cinematic History

Teenage Girl Gang Movies Through the Years

Emily Scott is an actress, writer, and filmmaker currently living in the Bay Area. In addition to freelance work, she writes regularly for Culturess. You can find her on Twitter @Emascott92 or at http://emily–scott.weebly.com.

Call For Writers: Unpopular Opinions of Film and Television

Feminists know a good deal about having and voicing unpopular opinions about films and television. There are often uncomfortable truths about well-loved movies or series. While many people prefer to either ignore those uncomfortable truths or deride those attempting to expose them, it is imperative that we remain active participants in the consumption of media.

Our theme week for November 2016 will be Unpopular Opinions of Film/Television.

Feminists know a good deal about having and voicing unpopular opinions about films and television. There are often uncomfortable truths about well-loved movies or series. For example, Game of Thrones is one of the most popular TV shows of all time and features many complex female characters, but it engages in rape culture, demonizes and discards women of color, punishes sex workers, and is therefore misogynistic. Avatar is ostensibly a beautifully animated film that has an environmental agenda, critiquing resource extractive economies as well as the practice of stealing from and genociding Indigenous people. However, the lead character is a white man masquerading as an Indigenous man, which is a classic instance of the White Savior trope, and the fact that he can only be a hero if he ceases to inhabit a wheelchair is ableist rhetoric. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is a groundbreaking feminist series that has become a cult classic; however, the show engages in bisexual erasure and, until late in its final seventh season, the show espouses a purely White Feminism (non-intersectional feminism that focuses primarily on the struggles of white women).

While many people prefer to either ignore those uncomfortable truths or deride those attempting to expose them, it is imperative that we remain active participants in the consumption of media. We must turn a critical eye on even our best loved pieces of art, questioning why we love them, how they are successful, and what inherent stereotypes or potentially damaging tropes they are advancing. It is only through exposing the ways in which film and television fail to accurately represent or include marginalized peoples that we can call for a higher standard and begin creating more intersectional, meaningful, and visionary work.

We want to read your most unpopular opinions about film and television. Tell us how and why a movie or series has failed its audience. You may also have an unpopular reading of a film or show that is inclusive and intersectional, but people are not open to your interpretation. We want to read those, too!

We’d like to avoid as much overlap as possible for this theme, so please get your proposals in early if you know which topic you would like to write about. We accept both original pieces and cross-posts.

Most of our pieces are between 1,000 and 2,000 words, and include links and images. Please send your piece as a Microsoft Word document to btchflcks[at]gmail[dot]com, including links to all images, and include a 2- to 3-sentence bio.

If you have written for us before, please indicate that in your proposal, and if not, send a writing sample if possible.

Please be familiar with our publication and look over recent and popular posts to get an idea of Bitch Flicks’ style and purpose. We encourage writers to use our search function to see if your topic has been written about before, and link when appropriate (hyperlinks to sources are welcome, as well).

The final due date for these submissions is Monday, November 28, 2016 by midnight Eastern Time.

Here are some possible topic ideas:

Game of Thrones

Avatar

Star Wars

Apocalypse Now

Girls

The Help

Star Trek

The Last Samurai

Revenge of the Nerds

The Mindy Project

Dances with Wolves

Downton Abbey

Transparent

High Fidelity

The 100

Dallas Buyers Club

Jessica Jones

Frozen

Dangerous Minds

The Amy Schumer Show

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Harry Potter

Modern Family

Sixteen Candles

Feminist Survivorship in ’10 Cloverfield Lane’

The protagonist Michelle immediately establishes herself as a survivor of domestic abuse as well as an impressive quick-thinker; she embraces her womanhood both as an essential act of character development and as a means to survive. … Tasha Robinson at ‘The Verge’ posits that the entire film is a metaphor for domestic abuse, as Michelle strategizes, endures, and eventually decides to keep on fighting.

This is a guest post written by Bill Ollayos. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: discussion of domestic abuse and violence]

Dan Trachtenberg’s 2016 directorial debut 10 Cloverfield Lane builds a claustrophobic, apocalyptic narrative from the survival tactics of its three main actors. Tense silences, enclosed spaces, and slow-building suspense artfully construct the piece produced by J. J. Abrams and Lindsey Weber. As the trio works to outlast a mysterious threat that has supposedly overtaken Earth, issues of power and gender simmer throughout the performances of this narrow cast. While I appreciate the overall compactness of the premise, I wonder what footholds exist for feminism in such an intentionally economic work. Can a film of majority male leads and an ensemble of white actors truly receive the “feminist” stamp of approval?

The recent deluge of superhero movies has furthered the critical discourse around sexist tropes in film, a discussion tied closely to the #OscarsSoWhite movement during the 2016 Academy Awards. While Hollywood’s handling of Black Widow throughout the Marvel Cinematic Universe continues to fuel and frustrate feminist scholars, 10 Cloverfield Lane strikes me as more akin to the feminism of Buffy Summers: authentic, gritty and unabashedly feminine. The protagonist Michelle immediately establishes herself as a survivor of domestic abuse as well as an impressive quick-thinker; she embraces her womanhood both as an essential act of character development and as a means to survive.

In 10 Cloverfield Lane, Mary Elizabeth Winstead stars as Michelle, a young woman fleeing from her fiancé, Ben. While distractedly driving away from their home, Michelle crashes her car and falls unconscious, awakening to find herself imprisoned in the underground bunker by Howard (played by John Goodman). Howard describes a global attack that overwhelmed their planet and how he brought Michelle to the bunker to keep her safe. The audience also meets Emmett (John Gallagher, Jr.), a simple yet endearing man who claims to have witnessed the attack before seeking shelter in Howard’s bunker. Michelle does not buy their tales of an alien invasion, instead believing that Howard ran her off the road and then kidnapped her. The audience watches as Michelle wrestles with her distrust of Howard, her uncertainty about the supposed annihilation of humankind, and her residual trauma from the relationship with her fiancé. Tasha Robinson at The Verge posits that the entire film is a metaphor for domestic abuse, as Michelle strategizes, endures, and eventually decides to keep on fighting.

And so enters the essential question – can we consider Michelle a feminist hero? Her feature film barely passes the Bechdel Test, stars only white actors, and was predominately written, directed, and produced by men. If we do accept Michelle’s portrayal of gender as feminist, then does 10 Cloverfield Lane land more solidly in the realm of “white feminism,” or should the narrowness of its premise exempt it from any broader expectations around diversity?

The first ten minutes of the film simultaneously establish Michelle’s victimhood and survivorship, a multifaceted identity that she builds over the next hour and a half. After Michelle tearfully packs her belongings into her car, we see her abandoned engagement ring and overhear a phone call from Ben. “Michelle, please don’t hang up,” he says, “Look, we had an argument, couples fight, that is no reason to just leave everything behind!” When Michelle awakens in Howard’s bunker with her broken leg chained to the wall, only moments pass before she starts using the metal rod holding her IV to reach for her cell phone. When Howard arrives to give her food and crutches, Michelle sharpens the tip of one crutch to a nasty point, starts a fire in the vent to draw Howard’s attention, and attacks him as soon as he enters the room. When Michelle is cornered, she thinks quickly and acts with the self-reliance of one accustomed to overcoming.

The audience is allowed to understand Michelle’s tenacity before the full breadth of her trauma is clear. After another of her escape attempts, she confides in Emmett about the cycle of abuse that permeates her life. “When my dad got that way,” she recalls in reference to a memory from her childhood, “my brother Collin was always there to take the worst of it for me.” In keeping with the tidy nature of the narrative, Michelle’s experiences with domestic abuse are only alluded to, as the script rarely strays from the apocalyptic circumstances of the film. Indeed, the word abuse is never even used throughout the entire movie, with focus instead staunchly placed on the question of an alien invasion and Howard’s possibly murderous tendencies. However, Ben’s references to a “fight” combined with Michelle’s traumatic memories indicate a history to her character beyond what is featured in this plot.

The tightness of the film prevents an in-depth exploration of Michelle’s past. However, her identity as a survivor of abuse still appears through more subtle methods. Howard himself serves to further the abuse metaphor, as his domineering behavior, sensitivity to perceived slights, and commitment to traditional gender roles all match with documented techniques of an abuser. He states that Michelle will “learn to like cooking” and cries, “No touching!” when Emmett grazes her elbow. Additionally, a series of dark clues planted around the bunker indicate that he may have murdered a young girl from Emmett’s class. Howard’s lumbering stance and propensity for aggressive outbursts exude chauvinistic masculinity. Drawing from her resourcefulness and familiarity with such abusive men, Michelle utilizes aspects of her femininity to ensure her own survival.

Michelle’s gender becomes an essential part of her attempts to survive both literally from the apocalyptic context of the film, as well as metaphorically from partner abuse. At her first meal in the bunker, wherein Howard sternly reminds them to “watch [their] language at table,” she hatches a plan to steal the master keys from his belt. She plays off her experiences with similarly abusive men and, anticipating Howard’s jealousy, begins flirting with Emmett during their meal. She giggles, her demeanor suddenly flirtatious, and caresses Emmett’s hand, triggering an immediate explosion from Howard. As he throws himself into her face, asserting his dominance over Michelle, she covertly pilfers his keys. In demonstrating her most salient identity factor, Michelle’s commitment to survival, she tactically uses gender to manipulate her environment and pursue her freedom.

Michelle’s performance of her femininity actually yields the ultimate escape plan. Howard’s regime of traditional gender roles included badgering Michelle to give him stitches, exemplifying the “angel in the house” stereotype of women who sew, heal, and enact other domestic duties. Michelle embraces certain aspects of this socialized regard for womanhood, proudly admitting to her interest in fashion design and spending much of her time in the bunker drawing sketches of apocalyptically chic attire. Once again merging her gender identity with her commitment to survival, she masterminds a plan to sew a biohazard suit that would allow her to enter the supposedly toxic atmosphere beyond the bunker.

The cinematography of the entire film is arguably bent on giving tools to Michelle. The camera rests on a shot of the shower curtain that she will weave into her biohazard suit. Within the first few frames of the film, we see the bottle of alcohol that she will eventually detonate within the belly of an alien beast during the final battle. 10 Cloverfield Lane builds Michelle into a survivor across several planes: as a woman, a victim of abuse, and an Earthling. In the very last scene of the film, Michelle overhears a radio broadcast asking anyone with combat experience to join the remaining human forces in Houston. The audience watches as she turns her now stolen car around and drives toward the meeting point. Her decision allows the many poles of her identity to intersect. By heading to Houston, she is keeping herself engaged with the alien invasion (a symbol for the daily struggle faced by women survivors of domestic violence even after they escape their houses) and bringing her proven survival skills to the aid of the less powerful.

I find Michelle’s cunning nature and decided embrace of femininity as markers of feminism within 10 Cloverfield Lane. Although she only speaks to another woman for several seconds (when neighbor Leslie appears at the door of the bunker and dies after Michelle does not let her in), I believe that the economy of the narrative, which is so critical to the artistry of the film, excuses the underrepresentation of women. I also argue that Michelle’s repeated performances of her gender endorse an overall positive regard for womanhood and, thus, allow me to consider her a feminist hero.

However, I cannot express the same level of comfort when faced with the hegemonic Whiteness of the film. If we speak in terms of cinematic quizzes, though 10 Cloverfield Lane passes the Bechdel Test, it would certainly fail the DuVernay Test for its complete disregard for characters of color. 10 Cloverfield Lane is the second film in this franchise, and its predecessor Cloverfield undoubtedly features more actors of color. Cloverfield also takes place on a much larger scale (the streets of New York instead of an underground bunker), which allowed for the inclusion of more characters and the increase of racial diversity. While the premise of 10 Cloverfield Lane demanded fewer characters, I am not content with overlooking an all white cast. I also do not want to disparage the film with a label of “white feminism” – I wonder how a piece that so creatively handles gender in an intentionally tight script could have engaged race without losing the wonderful compactness. Besides casting people of color in the roles, of course.

I believe the character of Michelle to be a feminist hero. She renders a positive, complex portrayal of womanhood and survivorship. Roxanne Gay states in her 2014 book Bad Feminist that she “would rather be a bad feminist than no feminist at all.” Although the overall workings of 10 Cloverfield Lane deny intersectionality in feminism, I still want to appreciate the film for what it is: clever, suspenseful, and a smart testament to the trials of domestic abuse.

Bill Ollayos is a current Master’s student at the University of Massachusetts Amherst in the Translation Studies program. His research focuses on cultural power, gender studies, and critical race theory. Email him at william.ollayos@gmail.com for more information.

‘Suffragette’: The More Things Change the More They Stay the Same

In fact, it made me even more upset at the fact that one hundred years later, we may have the vote but women are still facing inequality, sexual harassment, unequal pay, and poor conditions in the workplace. … I wasn’t expecting to be as taken aback by just how little has changed since the period ‘Suffragette’ is set. …It made me realize we need [feminism] more than ever.

This guest post is written by Scarlett Harris. | Spoilers ahead.

I went to see Suffragette at the culmination of a day spent feeling utterly depressed at the state of women in the workplace and the world at large. As you can imagine, Suffragette did nothing to assuage my feelings. In fact, it made me even more upset at the fact that one hundred years later, we may have the vote but women are still facing inequality, sexual harassment, unequal pay, and poor conditions in the workplace.

The day in question saw my Twitter timeline full of defenses of cricketer Chris Gayle, who hit on a female reporter as she was trying to interview him after a game; Jamie Briggs, the minister for cities and built environments, who sexually harassed a young female staffer on an international trip; Peter Dutton, the minister for immigration and border protection, who called reporter Samantha Maiden, who stood up for the staffer in question, a “mad fucking witch” in a text message clearly not meant for her but somehow sent to her anyway (and this is the guy in charge of Australia’s borders!); and the two men who murdered their families as “good guys” suffering from mental health problems (an important issue in its own right but not at the expense of the safety of women and children).

So, heading into Suffragette I shrunk into myself as a form of protection from all the microaggressions I’d faced that day but I raged internally at the depictions of workplace inequality, sexual harassment and assault and the general placement of women as second-class citizens and, behold, this piece was born.

Workplace Rights.
In the laundry that protagonist Maud (Carey Mulligan), her husband Sonny (Ben Whishaw) and friend and fellow suffragette Violet (Anne-Marie Duff) work, women toil away over steam and hot fumes. Maud herself was born at the laundry to a mother who was killed when a vat tipped on her only four years later. When Maud gets home, she washes her family’s own laundry and fixes her husband and son dinner. She endures sexual harassment and, it is implied, survived rape by the manager of the laundry, Mr. Taylor (Geoff Bell). All of this is viewed as inconvenient at best, a workplace hazard at worst.

After a day spent reading about the above-mentioned modern day examples of workplace harassment I couldn’t help but see the similarities. While the Gayle and Dutton incidents came to light because they happened in full view of the media, Briggs’ sexual harassment accusations are the exception to the rule: how many other countless examples of sexual harassment and assault have occurred but are swept under the carpet in an effort not to jeopardize positions or be looked on unfavorably by colleagues?

You Don’t Get a Cookie.
When Maud reveals these labor conditions (her standing up to her rapist happens later) in a votes for women hearing, the men on the board seem genuinely shocked. Prominent British politician and statesman David Lloyd George (Adrian Schiller) seems sympathetic to Maud’s plight however her testimony doesn’t convince him of her right to vote.

Maud’s husband, too, seems initially merely inconvenienced by her newfound interest in suffrage but, as the movie progresses, Maud’s feminism gets stronger and she spends more time in prison for demonstrating, he kicks her out of the house and adopts their son out to a rich family. He says he can’t be expected to work, run a household and look after their son — what Maud’s been doing this whole time — in a stark example of male privilege.

These are some of Suffragette’s more sympathetic male characters compared to anti-suffrage policeman Inspector Steed (Brendan Gleeson) and Mr. Taylor but, like men today who express astonishment when women reveal they’ve been harassed and assaulted and the belief that women do, in fact, deserve basic human rights, they don’t get a cookie for it.

Reproductive Rights.
As attacks on reproductive rights threaten to return to pre-Roe V. Wade levels, which is to say non-existent, in the U.S. and pap tests and STI blood tests will come at a price in Australia, they are mirrored in Suffragette. Abused spouse Violet steps down from the suffrage movement when she discovers she’s pregnant again, citing exhaustion at not being able to “take care of the [kids] I’ve got.” Maud is force fed in prison in a harrowingly triggering scene echoing rape, mandatory trans-vaginal ultrasounds for women seeking to terminate their pregnancies, forced sterilization and any manner of other violations against women’s bodies. She asks Steed, when he expresses disdain over her disobedience of the law, “Why should I obey a law I had no hand in making?”

Check out Meryl Streep and Carey Mulligan on the cover of @TimeOutLondon this week! More info http://t.co/nZxRwvNFdo pic.twitter.com/y6KWGLDOK4

— SUFFRAGETTE (@SuffragetteFilm) September 29, 2015

Black Lives Matter.
Much has been made about Suffragette’s whitewashing and rightfully so. There were literally no women of color in the film, despite the real-life involvement of Indian suffragettes, for example. And, in perhaps the most offensive portion of the film that was parlayed into a tone-deaf marketing campaign, suffrage leader Emmeline Pankhurst (Meryl Streep in a two-minute cameo) says in her famous speech:

“We do not want to be law breakers; we want to be law makers. Be militant, each of you in your own way. Those of you who can break windows, break them. Those of you who can further attack the sacred idol of property, do so. We have been left with no alternative but to defy this government. If we must go to prison to obtain the vote let it be the windows of government not the bodies of women which shall be broken.”

First of all, slavery is not a choice. Secondly, the above-mentioned use of this 1913 speech for a Time Out cover featuring the all-white cast illustrates just how far white feminism has to go in the inclusion of women of color.

14 officers show up at an Oregon #BlackLivesMatters protest

150 armed protestors: *crickets* #OregonUnderAttack pic.twitter.com/Jrgmc7KS2Q

— Yukio Strachan (@boldandworthy) January 4, 2016

Three queer Black women formed the #BlackLivesMatter movement after the death of Trayvon Martin at the hands of police as “a response to the anti-Black racism that permeates our society.” Meanwhile, white ranchers are allowed to demonstrate “peacefully” — albeit armed — on seized government land (which let’s not forget was originally stolen from Indigenous peoples hundreds of years ago). Much like the attempts to bar people of color from demonstrating peacefully without militarized police forces (see above tweet) threatening them or mowing them down, Suffragette excludes women of color from its depiction of the suffrage movement by denying them a voice. But on the other hand, consider Pankhurst’s words above and some of the film’s early scenes in which demonstrators are attacked by policemen in the streets: Suffragette could also be viewed as an allegory for racist police brutality.

[NEW POST] My #Feminist Awakening & the Influence of #Beyonce's Pop Culture Declaration http://t.co/j5FqMvhPtu pic.twitter.com/ZmBE71DvAu

— Janet Mock (@janetmock) September 3, 2014

I’m Not a Feminist, But…
Upon Maud’s first arrest, she insists she’s “not a suffragette.” Where have we heard that before? Modern women’s baffling insistence that they, too, are not feminists seems to be in the news every other day. The online campaigns about why women don’t need feminism and celebrities being asked whether they are feminists have dominated the discussion in recent years reminded me of Maud’s colleagues at the laundry turning their backs on her when she’s outed for demonstrating and when she finally takes her revenge on her abuser. Internalized misogyny is as hard at work today as it was 100 years ago.

White women who do call themselves feminists, such as Emma Watson and Lena Dunham, are seldom met with much push-back, whereas Black women’s (those who do identify with a movement that has often ignored the contributions of feminists who are women of color and not with another movement such as “womanist”) feminism comes with a whole host of caveats. Despite Beyoncé’s spectacular embrace of feminism at the MTV Video Music Awards flanked by an emblazoned erection of the word, she’s still asked to qualify it. Black feminists such as Janet Mock, Roxane Gay and Amandla Stenberg are increasingly having their voices heard by the mainstream media while Kate Winslet refuses to talk about “vulgar” pay inequities in Hollywood and Patricia Arquette urges other marginalized groups to support women — and, let’s be clear here, she was talking about white women in the über privileged world of Hollywood. That’s not to say that Jennifer Lawrence, a fellow champion of closing the pay gap, doesn’t deserve to get paid as much as Bradley Cooper, but it partially ignores the struggles of women like Viola Davis and men like John Boyega to get paid as much as their white counterparts. And to intersect the two, all we have to do is look at this week’s Oscar nominations which resulted in no actors of color being recognized in the four main acting categories. Oscar noms = $$.

I wasn’t expecting to be as taken aback by just how little has changed since the period Suffragette is set. Sure, sexism and misogyny may not be as violent and blatant and we’re more likely to get up in arms when it is, but just because a few high profile women enjoy privileges far removed from what Maud and Violet in Suffragette and countless other women around the world face, doesn’t mean that we don’t need feminism. In fact, it made me realize we need it more than ever.

Scarlett Harris is an Australian writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she muses about femin- and other -isms. You can follow her on Twitter here.

Rape, Consent and Race in Marvel’s ‘Jessica Jones’

Marvel’s ‘Jessica Jones’ is the latest, best example of white feminist fiction: excellent on sexism, terrible on racism.

This guest post is written by Cate Young and originally appeared at her site BattyMamzelle. It is cross-posted with permission.

Trigger warning for discussion of rape and rape culture.

Marvel’s Jessica Jones is the latest, best example of white feminist fiction: excellent on sexism, terrible on racism. There are a lot of great things about this series that speak directly to the ills that women face on a daily basis. Kilgrave, the central villain, is chillingly terrifying, specifically because the only difference between him and your garden variety abuser is his total power to enact his will. The examination of male entitlement in ways both large and small (by contrasting Kilgrave and Simpson for example) are excellent and poignant. But as I watched the 13 episode first season, I was struck by how callously black people’s lives were treated on the show, rendered into convenient plot devices in service of the white female protagonist’s character development. As a black woman viewing the show, it was easy to see that the active pursuit of liberation from abuse was not a struggle that this show believes includes me (an ongoing struggle for Marvel). Ironically, the best parts of the show are its treatment with its villain, while the worst are its treatments with its female anti-heroine.

While I do have several critiques of the show, there were a number of things that I thought were handled exceptionally well. Firstly, this is a show driven by women about the fears and terrors that women must navigate in the world shrunk down to a micro-level, enabling us an intimate look at the various levels of abuse women routinely endure. The contrast between Kilgrave and Simpson is genius, as it helps demonstrate the full scale of abuse that men knowingly and unknowingly enact on the women around them. The two men are flip-sides of the same coin. While Kilgrave simply takes what he feels he is entitled to by means of his powers of enhanced persuasion, Simpson initially takes a less forceful but no less sinister approach, exemplified in his treatment of Trish after he realizes that Kilgrave has compelled him to murder her. As Stephanie Yang writes in a Bitch Magazine review:

The warning signs are there early on. Under Kilgrave’s control, Simpson assaults Trish inside her own apartment. Once Kilgrave’s control wears off, he’s wracked with guilt and comes back to apologize. The problem is that Trish doesn’t want Simpson’s apology; she wants him to just leave. Trish doesn’t want to be reminded that she was attacked in her own home, or feel trapped by her own high-end security system while her attacker lingers outside. But Simpson is insistent, sitting in her hallway and talking to her through the intercom. Simpson makes his apology about his needs and his absolution, not about Trish’s needs, safety or mental health. It’s entirely understandable, but it’s still wrong.

Simpson and Kilgrave certainly have different motivation for their destructive actions. But as Jessica points out, intent doesn’t matter. Their actions and consequences are what matter. That’s an important distinction that needs to be made at a time when courts and media alike dismiss many real-life cases of abuse because the abuser “couldn’t know” what they were doing was wrong. Violence is a symptom of a culture that indulges bad behavior as being inherently and unavoidably part of masculinity, or even a romantic expression of desire and protectiveness.

I would go a step further and name Simpson’s insistent apologies to Trish as outright abusive on their face, specifically because they prioritize his need for absolution over her need to heal. Trish is the victim in the situation, and yet Simpson manages to find a way to center himself in the story of this trauma. As with Kilgrave and Jessica, Simpson’s abuse is rooted not in a cartoonish hatred of women as we are often led to believe, but rather in prioritizing his own will and desires over Trish’s.

The show’s exploration of rape and consent is also spot-on. Through interaction with Kilgrave’s superhuman abilities, Jessica Jones is able to make plain text of the subtext of rape culture. In one episode, Jessica makes plain that what Kilgrave did to her was rape. She says the word and invokes it over and over, explaining to him that by revoking her ability to consent, he violated her in a profound way that he can never make up for, nullifying any “kind treatment” during that time. For Jessica (and many other victims of sexual abuse) she was raped not only when Kilgrave forced sexual consent by rendering her suggestible, but also by forcing her to display trust and affection for him against her will. We see this idea replicated when Hope demands that she be allowed to abort Kilgrave’s fetus, because “every moment it’s in me is like he’s raping me all over again.”

The other great thing about Jessica Jones is that it is a show ostensibly about rape, that never depicts a rape. It can be argued that the entire engine of the show is powered by the actions of a serial rapist with many, many victims in his wake, and yet the show never feels the need to indulge in crude depictions of trauma to demonstrate how horrifying rape is. Instead, we spend extensive time examining the fallout; following Jessica and Hope as they try to cope with being violated on such a profound level, grapple with their own feelings of guilt and culpability and make it to the other side with their faculties intact. One of the things that made Kilgrave so scary in the initial episodes was the way the memory of him haunted Jessica, always lingering at the edge of her thoughts, out of sight, but never out of mind. It masterfully depicted the way that rape trauma is a burden that doesn’t go away once the act itself is over. In a year that’s been replete with depictions of rape in television, it was refreshing to see a show tackle the true emotional weight of sexual assault without using the violation itself to titillate.

On the other hand, the treatment of people of colour in Jessica Jones is often anti-intersectional and openly anti-black. Vulture‘s year end “Best of Television” list cites the show as demonstrating “a racially diverse cast, heavy on women,” a construction that belies that for many people, diversity means “add black men and stir.” To me, it is borderline disrespectful to call the show racially diverse when the only significant, named woman of colour character is dead before the narrative begins and never speaks a word, while the black male characters are all subjected to incredible violence in service of the white female protagonist. This force frames feminist representation as the representation of white women and yet again, erases women of colour from our popular narratives.

With Reva’s character, this is especially glaring. Her death at Jessica’s hands is essentially the inciting incident of the story; the act that allows Jessica to free herself from Kilgrave’s control. Reva is fridged to motivate Jessica’s escape and eventual confrontation with Kilgrave. As Shaadi Devereaux writes in Model View Culture:

[…] One has to wonder what metaphor is offered, that she has to kill a Black woman in order to finally obtain that freedom. She must literally stop Reva Connors’ heart with a single blow in order to experience her moment of awakening, enabling her to walk away from a cis-heterosexual white male abuser. It brings to mind how white women liberate themselves from unpaid domestic labor by exploiting Black/Latina/Indigenous women, often heal their own sexual trauma by performing activism that harms WoC, and how the white women’s dollar still compares to that of WoC. Like Jessica’s liberation is only possible through the violence against Reva, we see sharp parallels with how liberatory white womanhood often interplays with the lives of WoC. Were the writers consciously aware of these parallels, or was it just the same script playing out in their heads?

It’s disappointing that the show, knowingly or not, replicates the same cycles of abuse that routinely play out within the feminist movement, by positioning violence against black women as the justified cost of white women’s liberation. Jessica eventually enacts the same cycle of abuse against Luke Cage, her main love interest. Shaadi notes:

After killing Reva, Jessica goes on to stalk Reva’s husband, Luke Cage, in a compulsive and boundary-violating cycle of guilt. She finally sleeps with him…without disclosing how she was implicated in Reva’s death. She both withholds and actively obstructs him from finding out information about his own life, so that she can continue to get what she needs intimately from him. In dealing with her own demons, Jessica violates an invulnerable Black man and lays him a blow that no other character in their universe has the power to. Was this another nod to a complex understanding of gender, race and power, or another trope surfacing in insidious ways?

The issue here is that the show does not give any indication as to whether this is commentary or trope, so we are forced to assume the latter, interpreting the text as presented to us. Jessica makes a habit of using the black men around her, in service to her own ends treating them as interchangeable and disposable, a glaring and problematic oversight given the current political climate, and the historical context of black men being subjected to undue violence for the protection of white women. Jessica’s pursuit of Luke despite her knowledge of her involvement in what we are led to believe in the most painful event of his life replicates the same disregard for his feelings that we saw Simpson demonstrate with Trish. To Jessica, her own need to be in Luke’s orbit because of her overwhelming guilt and self-loathing, supersede his right to be fully informed about the circumstances of his wife’s death, and as Tom and Lorenzo astutely write in their review:

[…] Like it or not, she has the capacity to be a bit hypocritical about Kilgrave’s abilities choosing to think that there’s actually a right way to take people’s control away from them.

And Jessica very literally takes Luke’s control away by not disclosing her involvement in Reva’s death. She takes away his ability to choose not to be with the person who murdered his wife. Later, his choice to forgive is later revoked by Kilgrave, as he is forced to reconcile with her under Kilgrave’s control. Again, the invulnerable black man’s pain is not respected, but rather toyed with and manipulated by the narrative to serve the needs of white characters. As Shaadi again points out, the pattern becomes more uncomfortable and glaring as the series continues:

When her neighbor shares how Black people are more vulnerable to others’ perceptions, it invokes not sympathy but an idea of how she can use it for her own ends. The result is several scenes where she pushes Black men into people to create a scene of chaos, using the opportunity to go unseen as she breaks the law. Instead of challenging oppressive systems directly, she uses them to get what she wants and to center her own survival. We see that she has some guilt about it, but sis willing to do it for her survival and the survival of other white characters.

These scenes demonstrate that as people marginalized along a spectrum, we often leverage violence against others for our own survival, sometimes with full awareness. But is awareness enough? Or as long as power remains unchallenged, will we always be lured by self-priority, the hierarchy of own safety and access? Our hero is willing to take on the mindcontrol of Kilgrave, but not those dangers most affecting the two most important men in her life – both Black. She intimately understands that no one will believe her, but capitalizes on the hierarchy of who has enough humanity to be believed – against other marginalized identities. She can finally walk away from the mind of her abuser, but the gravitational pull of racism is still too much.

As a black woman, I’m left to wonder, is Jessica worse than your garden variety racist for acknowledging systems of oppression only to exploit them? And on a real world level, why is this behaviour heralded by viewers as feminist when it actively takes advantage of people that the feminist movement is meant to protect?

My last issue is less a problem with this show specifically and more a general trope in fiction. I expect that very little can be done about this considering the source material, but truly abhor narratives in which a black person’s “power” is that they cannot feel pain or be hurt. It is a direct callback to very pervasive superhumanization bias and stereotypes that still exist and are perpetuated today. As I have written before about this characterization, it feeds into the idea that violence against black people is not traumatic or dangerous as they can withstand the pain, and that this ability positions them as protectors of white characters who often also do them harm. It explains why young black boys are coded by white people as much older than they are, or why they think black people feel less pain. With Luke, we see this reflected in Luke’s fight scenes as person after person escalates the violence against him to no effect. He is easily able to trounce several men at once. Earlier, we also see him take a circle saw to his abdomen in order to demonstrate his power to Jessica. Later still, we see doctors poke and prod him with needles and other penetrating devices ostensibly to save him, but the scenes only reinforce what we have already been told; nothing can hurt him, and so violence against him is justified.

In the end, I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the show. The way Jessica Jones deals with consent resonated with me on a deep level, but it also made me question why the show didn’t identify with me as a black woman, when I so easily identified with it. Hopefully in the next season we will see a more intersectional approach to the struggles that women face that treats its black characters with the same care that it affords the white women in the cast.

Cate Young is a Trinidadian freelance writer and photographer, and author of BattyMamzelle, a feminist pop culture blog focused on film, television, music, and critical commentary on media representation. Cate has a BA in Photojournalism from Boston University and is currently pursuing her MA in Mass Communications so that she can more effectively examine the symbolic annihilation of women of colour in the media and deliver the critical feminist smack down. Follow her on twitter at @BattyMamzelle.

The “Threatening” Aspects of ‘The Bletchley Circle’

This show doesn’t say that all women should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. It says White cisgender heterosexual women, particularly ones who are young, skinny, and meet current White cultural expectations of beauty, should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. While the show was not cancelled after its first season, the second season showed more “nice guy” characters, probably to placate White male viewers who had a problem with the basics of White feminism depicted in the first season.

Written by Jackson Adler.

Trigger Warning for Sexual Violence

During the Second World War, Bletchley Park was the UK’s central site of its Government Code and Cypher School. It was at Bletchley Park where Alan Turing and many others decoded Nazi and Axis intelligence, bringing the war to an end two to four years earlier than it could have stretched, saving thousands of lives. The BBC’s TV series The Bletchley Circle follows four (and later, five) fictional White female Bletchley Park code breakers in their lives after the war in the 1950s, during which they start solving crimes. The first season premiered in September of 2012, and the series did not return until April and May of 2014. During the second season there was a female director on the show, and, while there had always been White feminist aspects to the show, the writer Guy Burt’s theme of (White) women standing up for (White) women was taken to a whole new level under Sarah Harding’s direction. That this White (and somewhat) feminist show, which was written by and often directed by White men, was not renewed despite mainly addressing only the basics of White feminism – that (White) women shouldn’t be kidnapped, murdered, and raped (in the first season, the villain worked in that order) – is upsetting. This is the most palatable kind of feminism for rich White men, and yet even this story is silenced.

Not only is the story “palatable,” but the heroines themselves are written as overly “perfect” and not very “threatening.” They are kind, intelligent, empathetic, humble, and rarely confront the men in their lives for their condescension and sexist comments and actions. Meanwhile, shows about White men who solve crimes show the “heroes” as egotistic, unkind, confrontational, and violent. The shows about these male heroes and anti-heroes are everywhere on television, and they get renewed again and again. There is hardly a man or Woman of Color to be seen in The Bletchley Circle, and all of the romances of the characters, all of whom are cisgender, have been heterosexual. This show doesn’t say that all women should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. It says White cisgender heterosexual women, particularly ones who are young, skinny, and meet current White cultural expectations of beauty, should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. While the show was not cancelled after its first season, the second season showed more “nice guy” characters, probably to placate White male viewers who had a problem with the basics of White feminism depicted in the first season. Though the heroines were still standing up for each other and saving themselves from “bad” guys, the show started depicting more “nice guys” on which the heroines could not only occasionally rely, but also date. The most prominent of these “nice guys” was offended that the character Lucy did not trust him right away, and the show seemed to say that she should have trusted him. If this man is supposed to be an ally to women, a male feminist, then why was he so offended?

It would have been different if this were the start of a character arc, one that showed a man just starting his journey as an ally, showing him making mistakes and learning from them. However, that’s not what happened, and was essentially a “not all men” argument displayed in story form. This is especially problematic because the writer chose Lucy out of all the other female characters to be put in this position. Lucy, played by Sophie Rundle, is quieter and seemingly more “submissive” than the other White female characters, seeming to more easily fit into what is traditionally desired of White women by the White patriarchy. However, being quiet, submissive, “feminine,” and marrying young does not save her from violence at the hands of men.

Lucy’s husband is verbally and physically controlling and abusive. In one day, she is almost raped by a man on the train, only to return home where her husband nearly kills her. And yet, she is shamed for not having trusted this “nice” male coworker in the second season right away? Made to feel embarrassed for being wary of this man who has been overtly flirting with her? Wary of this man who is sometimes condescending to her and gives backhanded compliments? This was seemingly a story line to comfort White male viewers who were made uncomfortable by the basics of White feminism and by White women saving and supporting White women. Instead of Lucy being “the ball,” as Anita Sarkeesian states, in a “nice” men vs “bad” men competition, she is saved from “bad” men by fellow women and her own strength. Though there are times when men assist and support the women of the show, the women are the ones leading the fight against sexism and violence against women. Evidently, many White cismale and (mostly) heterosexual viewers and studio execs were made uncomfortable by the notion that these White women are, for the most part, not saved by White men, but by themselves.

The first season has The Bletchley Circle, led by protagonist Susan (played by Anna Maxwell Martin), solving a serial murder case in which a man is killing women and raping them post-mortem. While the villain could easily have been made into a straw-chauvinist by the male screenwriter to make the other male characters look good, this is not the case. In fact, it is often in regard to the serial murder case that the misogyny in the other male characters surfaces. This underlines the fact that the allowance of microaggressions sets the stage for more blatant sexism, which then makes violence against women and girls more permissible in Western society, and thus creating a culture where rape and violence against women and girls by men and boys is often excused, not taken seriously, and not thoroughly addressed. When Susan’s husband accuses her of neglecting her duties as a mother due to her not staying home as often as he would like, the truth is that she was being a good mother by trying to make the world safer for their daughter and not as damaging to the character of their son.

In the first story arc of the second season, Susan is naturally still traumatized by events of the first season, which include almost being murdered and raped by the villain. Though she leaves the crime solving life behind, she does not leave it until she makes certain that the circle is in good and capable hands. This adds realism to the story in that trauma is not something that can just go away or be ignored, especially not at a moment’s notice. However, it is sad that this rare and realistic portrayal of a hero and the trauma they face was done with one of the few positive and complex female leads of television, while male heroes of similar shows are not shown dealing with their trauma in any where near as realistic a way. They stay on their shows and keep “fighting the good fight” for years despite whatever trauma they face.

The Bletchley Circle, including Alice and Lizzie

Though the show’s cast were always a sort of ensemble, they become more so in the second season. The capable hands in which Susan leaves the circle belong to Alice (played by Hattie Morahan). Alice fits more easily into White cultural expectations of beauty than Susan does, being blonde, blue-eyed, taller and thinner. However, the character is complex, and instead of her “taking charge” of the team, she is welcomed into it, helps in the ways that she can, and the show becomes more of an ensemble than it was previously. This is not to say that Susan was always “taking charge,” just that she pulled the team together in the first place and the script followed her story more than the others. Susan had a child out of wedlock, and was forced to give up the child to adoption due to stigma and cultural standards. During the second season, she reconnects with her now adult daughter Lizzie (played by Faye Marsay), and the two form a sort of warm friendship rarely seen between women on TV and film. The other women of the circle never judge Alice for having sex and a child out of wedlock, nor do they judge each other for whatever choices they make. Shy and conservative Lucy never judges Millie (played by Rachael Stirling), the more outgoing one who likes tight fitting clothing, make-up, and the color red, and Millie never judges Lucy. Jean, the “mother hen” played by Julie Graham, is not judged for being a mature single woman, nor does she judge her younger female friends in their choices. Not only do these women save each others lives, but they also support each other as friends in their personal lives, outside life as code breakers and crime solvers.

In the second arc of the second season, which is the final arc of the show, the story follows Millie just as much if not more than Alice. This is possibly what lead more to the end of the show than other aspects of it. Millie has arguably more autonomy than any of the other characters. Though she is shamed for “getting in trouble” with the Greek mob, what lead her to it was not her fault. She was laid off from work with the government despite being one of the best workers there and having had a history with them, most certainly due to being a female employee. In order to stay financially dependent, she started selling unsanctioned perfume and stockings, not realizing that she was helping the Greek mob in the process. When she realizes that she is helping people who, among other things, traffic underage girls, she works with her female friends to bring the operation down, which they do with very minimal help from “nice” guys. That the female character who is seemingly most in control of her sexuality is the heroine of this arc was probably threatening to male viewers, and probably the reason why this story arc was the show’s last. In rape culture, women supposed to be sexualized but not be sexual. That Millie, a sexual woman, stopped the sexualization of women and girls was “threatening” to rape culture and patriarchy.

This show has strong feminist aspects and is arguably feminist. If it had been allowed to continue, its feminism would most likely have become stronger, and hopefully would have eventually shown Women of Color supporting each other. As it stands, this show that only really showed the basics of White feminism was cancelled, while shows that promote White male supremacy continue to air.