Tagged with “girls” …

Dec 09 2010
culture, feminism

quick hit: how to meet ‘girls’ IE, respect the c*ck

On FB today my partner Ralph shared a wee video from an author and self-styled relationship guru named Greg D. – the proprietor of a website, DVD, etc. with a tagline cited as “Pure Attraction – The Art of Christian Social Dynamics”. I’ll let you watch for yourself.

Although Ralph’s resultant commentstream was full of people expressing revulsion for this man and his condescending yet cringeworthy and inept “tactics” to make himself seem approachable and relaxed and, mostly, to meet his goal: getting closer to a woman – I mean “a girl” – for his own purposes of relationship, I would imagine many people in our social sphere are likely to mock this as a symptom of Christian dysfunction instead of examining, you know, men and masculine culture in totality. It’s easy (and occasionally fun, to some) for many of my peers to make fun of this man because of his stated goals of helping Christian men and his unabashed identity within a Christian church (or other targets, like his appearance), but of course there are so many secular approaches to “dating strategies” for men that involve condescencion, “openers”, inauthentic performance, predation, stereotyping of women (much of it misogynistic or even trigger-warning worthy), and a bevy of extremely problematic approaches to women – including, as in this video, a complete insensitivity to women’s lived realities. To wit, a stunning ignorance that the supposedly refreshing and straightforward, “You’re adorable/beautiful/sexy/hot” and/or big brother/little sister approach upon a first-time meet is not universally experienced as complimentary, welcomed, charming, and/or desired, however a woman may respond in the moment she’s confronted by it. See, many people call-out these dating gurus and “How To Meet / Bed Ladies” as being inept and dehumanizing but kind of silly and harmless and ha-ha, no one actually uses these (oops, some people do!, p.s. did you know when you kill women specifically because they’re women we don’t call it a “hate crime”, whee!); conveniently these same people simultaneously ignore the misogynistic root of most approaches and their disturbing prevalence in mainstream magazines, media, etc. that make money hand over fist and adorn the landscape of public life (oh hai Maxim!).

Departing from the mainstream media and back to the personal, in watching this video tonight with our small dinner-guest group I felt deflated. Partly it was my mood, but partly it was mentally living out my history and memories. At some point I grimly identified aloud having had all these approaches levied at my person (including, verbatim, “You’re adorable,” etc., the video opener that bothered me most), and this took me on a mental trip through the many nuances of incredible Assery I’ve experienced, like the much-older coworker who told me over our first lunch in the breakroom that he hoped we could be “fuck buddies” – a particular record-scratching moment that immediately precipitated a soul-cocktail of simultaneous tedium and mild despondency - the persistant fellow at the meetup who upon my rejection threatened to hit me, the fellow that staggered up to my friends and I (ah… StaggerPuss has happened to me so, so many times) and asked if there was truth in the whole, bears-can-smell-menstruation myth (answer: Fuck. Unbelievably. Off. also: no. Also: Fuck Off, have I mentioned? Also: Steve Carell is hilarious).

At my brief omission at being on the receiving end of “openers”, our male friend (who, like my partner, is able to participate in discussion of human rights issues for women without suddenly having his Man Card revoked) said, “I’m sorry you’ve experienced that.” Even then my kneejerk response is that whole, “I’m nothing special” bit I always feel like pointing out: I believe a lot of women have experienced a lot worse or more frequent than I have and of course, some women who’ve experienced what I’m naming might tell you these behaviors don’t bother them (and some women are often labeled as “undesireables” in a myriad of ways and they get a whole bevy of other Assery I’m not even touching on here). But the desire to quickly deflect attention from my protestations of mistreatment, or my knee-jerk impulse to say, “Oh it’s not that bad”, is precisely what I’ve been Feminized to do – my whole life.

My friend can’t apologize for things he didn’t do to me, personally, although (I think?) I appreciate his sentiment. See, what is more important to me is we quit the bullshit that sex is some kind of predatory evo-psych reality and the oppositional sexist dictum that women categorically withhold sex and physical affection (which is shitty and manipulative of them to do) and men cheerfully and/or aggressively should pursue these goals (which is only their right, after all). Men need to decide for themselves if women are people as opposed to male-fable plot-points or sexual receptacles or ego-fodder. Me personally, just tonight anyway, I’m a bit tired of trying to convince people of the former, even if I know it deep down in my guts to be the truth and the lived reality we should aspire to.

When any writer objects to some of the predatory, problematic, rape-apologist, patriarchal, oppositionally sexist (P.S., read this book) and/or patriarchal axioms of a man’s actions or a masculine institution (traditions and behaviors that often include and/or support the practices of racism, homophobia, ableism, ageism, transphobia, and classism, to name a few), inevitably someone steps in with their “What About The Mens?” wail. You know, Hey these guys are just trying to start a conversation and they get nervous too! AND/OR not every guy who tries to talk to a lady is a would-be rapist and you are totally saying that about all guys right now! AND/OR what’s a guy to do these days, one time I opened a door for a lady and she got all upset about it!

And yeah, I get it. I understand men are human and exhibit frailty and clumsiness and they want love (yay!) and of course, I am partnered with a man whom I love and respect and I cook for him and and sometime mend his clothes and I even let him touch my goodies and everything!  I understand and believe patriarchy really, really does hurt men too (and please do read that previous “WATM” link). That doesn’t excuse the repeated derail into making conversations about women’s experiences ALL about men and their rights to sex/hurt feelings, etc. But I get that men are hurting too.

Because, on a less social justice bent, I think often of the many men and women who suffer social anxieties; the many men and women are lonely and want connection. It is also true that many people are afraid of loneliness and vulnerability and, sadly, those of us who can help will often shy away from such people. I think of the twelve year old girl visiting the other day who routinely worries about “creeps” following her and I tell her, Well most men aren’t dangerous creeps. And I know it sucks to be called or considered a Creep when you’re not. But it also sucks for so many men to put themselves in the Not Creep category and lift nary a finger or think nary a thought about the fact that while they’re all busy being the Not Me & Not My Problem they’re making sure things stay exactly the same way for everyone else.

I hope there are a few fellows who read here and understand that seriously, I am not going to personally mock them for making clumsy pickup attempts or having really crappy or ill-formed ideas about ladies because heck, lots of ladies have the same. It isn’t really a man-vs.-woman thing at all (but many want you to believe it is) since so many women have internalized misogynistic and sexist worldviews. But men benefit from male privilege and don’t always see the hurt their sisters have had (and continue to have) wreaked upon them. It hurts these totally-decent men when they realize they’ve been authors and conspirators. And yeah, I know that’s a hard realization to have. I do.

But if they let their injured ego stand in the way of a commitment to doing better, it’s a huge shame. For all of us – including people these men deeply care about, no matter if their gurus and “dating” self-styled experts demonstrate a bottomless void where Awareness, Wisdom, and Compassion should be in evidence.

And now, in closing, I give you the world of fiction – which is, sadly, not all that fictional – and a wonderful scene performed by Tom Cruise from the film Magnolia:

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Mar 12 2010
film revue

Film Feministe: Dick Flicks Edition (Part One)

fisticuffs & pipe-smoking

Holmes and Watson in a spat?

Like all reviews in The Film Feministe, I strive to reveal a brief synopses of a film as well as an analysis. Occasionally my reviews include minor plot spoilers; caveat emptor.

I love Westerns. I love action films. One of the reasons I seek these out and watch them is because more than just about any other type of film I enjoy a well-done “buddy picture”. These seem exceedingly rare; look at your average Hollywood film marketed as a “buddy picture” and you have a couple of (usually white) men punching and shooting because they “have” to or they should; a handful of women serve as either serious love-interest or titillating arm-candy and ogling fodder. Few “buddy pictures” really develop on the nature, integrity, and character of the men therein, although that is supposedly what the film is about. In subsequent editions of this column I’d like to talk a bit about when buddy pictures get it right; here we have an example of one that got it almost completely wrong – despite having some wonderful material to start with.

Without further ado… I give you Film Feministe’s Dick Flick Edition (Part One)!

Sherlock Holmes (2009)

One of my early cinematic memories of a life lived loving movies was my mother telling me of a Sherlock Holmes film rendition in which “Watson and Holmes were homosexuals” (The way my mom says “homosexual” sets my teeth on edge).  My mother identified the gay Holmes film as 1988′s spoof Without a Clue starring Michael Caine and Sir Ben Kingsley.  A cursory review of this older film does not reveal there is any romantic plot or subplot between the two men; knowing my mother, she probably got her facts wrong.

I loved the Sherlock Holmes fiction stories and have read them forward and backwards yearly since the age of ten.  A few months ago when I saw the trailer for the newest Guy Ritchie installation I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Upon first glance the film looked to have stripped away the character of Holmes and the appeal of his stories, supplanting these with explosions, fisticuffs, high-gloss, slickness, and – incredibly – sexual titillation (sex in the fiction series? Zero).  But, as a Holmes-lover, I couldn’t stay away. 

Even with my modest expectations I was surprised how much it got things wrong. In fact, the film got so much wrong it is much easier to pinpoint what it (almost) got right: namely, the bond between Watson and Holmes.  For me it has never mattered much whether there was a romantic or sexual relationship between the two men; this interpretation or a strictly platonic one could serve the stories equally well. An exemplary aspect of the Sherlock Holmes installations were less his so-called “clever” deductions (many of which were impossible for a reader to have predicted or participated in, given they often revolved around implausible and last-minute-delivered minutiae from Holmes’ physical or mental library) than rather the relationship between the two crime-solvers. Holmes and Watson loved one another.  Deeply, loyally, and certainly to the exclusion of actual details in case-solving when such a choice had to be made.  I have always been drawn to stories of deep friendship and fidelity despite adversity – whether between men or women, and including or excluding a sexual element.  Holmes and Watson continue to deeply satisfy me as a reader, even when the stories and mysteries, make no mistake, are often rather silly and contrived.

To say Guy Ritchie’s latest imagining of Holmes was capable of hinting at a sexual relationship between the two men would be understatement. There are so very many visual and verbal clues as to this being the case it would be exhaustive to list them.  Much of the double entrendre is delivered in aggressive, playful fashion by Holmes (played by Robert Downey Jr.) to Watson (played by Jude Law).  The plot and subplot are essentially skeletal framework on which the larger story of the two mens’ relationship plays out: there is a mystery, of course, involving violent, conspiratory elements to fill the run time of the film (Holmes’ mysteries were often only a few pages). The film’s theme, however, is the impending breakup of the active partnership between the two men. Watson is getting married to Mary Morstan and will soon be moving out of the Baker Street residence. Holmes seeks to disrupt the engagement and the move-out date in every way possible.

Watson is a more active participant in the film than he was in the books. When he’s not assisting Holmes on the shockingly dangerous and physically violent errands of mystery-solving (more on this a bit) he spends much of the screentime asserting his agency to leave his obsessively needy companion.  Their bickering is partly old-roommate, partly sexual. In a early moment of the film the two are arguing about Watson’s imminent departure and Holmes lifts a long cane up to his friend’s mouth. “Get that thing out of my face,” Watson snaps at his housemate. “It’s not in my face, it’s in my hand,” Holmes mildly teases back. “Get the thing that’s in your hand out of my face,” Watson snarls in return.  The film is filled with many such in-jokes and allusions although a clueless person might not see them (or wish not to see them – hello, repressed straight males, oddly enough a target audience for the punch-em-up nature of the film).

Any sexual guesswork as to this version of the Holmes / Watson relationship is irrelevant in analyzing other choices the film makes, most of them familiar and namely, a most Drake McManslab series of plot events.  There are a myriad of explosions, poison gases, the destruction of massive amounts of property (really.  lots), electronic torture devices, freakishly brutal henchmen, and perhaps least appealing and most boring of all, endless, slow-then-rapid-motion fight scenes, some of them half-naked (Robert Downey Jr. has a rockin’ bod), many with deadly, terrible weapons.  The fight scenes might go almost unnoticed to audiences used to the simultaneous pornographic exploitation and trivialization of violence – and that’s the point. The film, instead of taking us somewhere imaginative, truly sinister, or realistically scary, merely employs chains, cattle-prods, axes, bullets, and numerous other forms of brutality in semi-comedic treatment that – if witnessed in real life – would have real-life and horrific repercussions (okay, yes, I am aware this is a Guy Ritchie film).

The violence is used often but only halfheartedly informs us of Holmes character.  He is a macho, macho man, sporting fighting-weight abs and vicious fighting skills.  He punishes himself masochistically in the boxing ring and is too emotionally remote and physically tough to notice damage inflicted on his person (curiously, this film version has Holmes drinking alcohol and just about any other stimulating and illegal substance; no mention of cocaine, which in the books was his only chemical dependency).  OK, yes, we get it.  Tough, tough guy.  Anyone read these books?  The literary Holmes was tough, but not Big McLargeHuge-tough – he was not given to sport but an able boxer and a man of tremendous physical strength (that he rarely deigned necessary to employ), by terms lazy and driven, prone to cocaine and tobacco but no other vice – and yes, not even “fast women”, of which the film also takes liberty to add:

Because further progressing a tired hyper-masculinied meme, there are no women in the film.  Indeed all females – including grisly murder victims and the two romantic (yet largely ornamental) leads – are referred to as “girls” (hint: you might realize you are watching a tired-ass sexist film if the female characters are never referred to by name, or as “women”, but rather – girls, or in the case of Mamet, broads.  Seriously.  Pay attention next time).  Mary Morstan (played by Kelly Reilly) shows up so infrequently we’re not sure at all why Watson is marrying her.  Her performance embodies the traits of high-class demeanor yet accessibly sexual – and even though she is supposed to be the love of Watson’s life, she is conveniently absent from screen time (in the books she was instrumental in “The Sign of Four”, one of the more epic Holmes stories).  Irene Adler is even further altered from the character in the book to ill effect, turned from a woman of the world to a cute li’l thing in the casting of Rachel McAdams.  Adler is no longer the intelligent, dignified, and wronged woman-cum-blackmailer of the book (who did not have any physical relationship with Holmes, I seek to ad) but instead one of those Sexy Ninja-Thief Ladies we’ve been enduring with regularity since the Charlie’s Angels revival of the eerily nineties.  She lacks the human traits and character foibles her male co-stars get in spades; her main traits seem to be that of being besotted with Holmes, a whiff of standard duplicitous femme fatale, and being very, very pretty.  Did I mention she’s pretty? Gosh-darn, she really is.

The cast is good, but underused. The talents of Mark Strong, like McAdams, are wasted in the role of Lord Blackwood, a creepy Satanist-or-is-he? of standard fare.  I was surprised and pleased by the role, casting, and character of Lestrade (Briton Eddie Marsan), a minor but familiar customer in the Holmes canon.  Costumes, location, and historical backdrop were used to the effect you’d expect from a big-budget film; namely, with much flare and little depth.  The costumes, naturally, made me drool, but then, I am a sewist.

In conclusion, I could have forgived the glossiness or even the punch, punch, punch, slap, smack – if only we’d had a compelling storyline between the two men, whose friendship is a legendary one.  The last bit of film reveals a character and subplot that will make it near impossible for me, or any other Holmes fanatic, to stay away from the sequel; I’m hoping if the institution is not handed off to a less uber-masculine director we at least slow down.  Less slow-motion super-punches, more of the deep draught of a wonderful friendship between two thrillingly well-rendered characters.

Never judge a book by its movie.
-J.W. Eagan

Mentioned:

Without a Clue (1988)

Sherlock Holmes (2009)

03/14/2010 ETA: Holmes and I, a blog post

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Jun 13 2009
culture, feminism, film revue

film feministe: the cinematic man-child and his perpetual harem of willing, nubile females

Happy Sailing!

Last night my husband and I spent a few sawbucks to watch the latest film starring Will Ferrell, Land of the Lost. Since we have young children and a working class income, a night with just the two of us is usually spent in simple pleasures: dinner together, a bit of housekeeping, a glass of wine and a silly film. Both of us, though we enjoyed this latest inane Ferrell comedy (the meat and potatoes of our mindless entertainment proclivities), were disappointed by the disturbing yet somehow boring repetitions of the same racist, sexist, and heterosexist foibles we keep seeing in today’s featured blockbuster comedies.

Land of the Lost evidences the seminal properties that define what I call the Man-Boy Movie. Ferrell plays Dr. Rick Marshall, a version of character repeated in countless comedies du jour, including Superbad, The Break Up, Knocked Up, Don’t Mess With The Zohan, Step Brothers, Hot Rod, Old School – I could go on. Marshall may somehow be an advanced scientist but is more importantly a middle-aged man uncouth, stupid – although somehow intelligent enough to create a revolutionary piece of scientific equipment – profane, and socially backwards. Anna Friel plays Holly Cantrell, in a winsome turn at Worshipping Girl Scientist. Danny McBride plays Will, a redneck, substance-abusing, pyrotechnic sidekick (more about him in a minute). Once in the Land of the Lost they are joined by Cha-Ka, a primate-like being played by Jorma Taccone, and the film follows the foursome through various comedic shennanigans based on a mere skeletal frame of a plot.

Ferrell’s potrayal is just as we’d expect (as listed above) – yet still, in my opinion, the performance managed to be very funny. Holly, on the other hand, is something different: her character is composed almost entirely of equal quantities of plucky cheerleader speeches, hero-worship in the case of Marshall (we are unsure as to how he deserves this), and a remarkable patience and fortitude whilst being sexually harassed, fondled, and diminished by all three male characters (including the humanoid Cha-Ka). Supposedly Holly is an empowered, intelligent woman; but she is none of these qualities so much that she’d inconvenience the bad behaviors of the males of the film. For instance, at the outset of the adventure Will comments to her, in so many words, she will find an upcoming adventure so thrilling her vagina will get moist. She threatens him with drowning should he speak to her this way again. But as the film proceeds we see this is an empty threat: similar comments, and an almost incessant amount of unwelcomed breast-fondling, are repeated regularly – and Holly takes no action to stop these. Her pluckiness and intelligence, therefore, serve only as a foil for her male co-stars, in such a way as to always help and never hamper.

She is also, of course, young and heteronormatively mainstream beautiful (she is also, of course, white), typical fare for these kinds of films. We are spared no details in an exploration of Ferrell and McBride’s very human physiques – a pool scene, half nudity, fat rolls, and many closeups on their faces showing every pore, greasy hair follicle, and wrinkle. Anna by comparison is framed through a dewey lense of flawlessness, presented in an immaculate tank top, hotpants, little girl braids, and impeccable makeup (I am skipping over the odd fact that in the orginial television series Holly and Will were Rick’s children; Anna as Ferrell’s romantic and sexual interest resembles something between Science Barbie and a teenage daughter). And most regrettable of all, although we are afforded long addresses by Rick and Will discussing their eating habits, the adventure of collecting hadrosaur urine (don’t ask), their life’s ambitions, their camp songs, their twisted view of the world and their harebrained, silly shemes – all we know about Anna is she went to Cambridge at some point and then attached herself to Rick’s scientific methods. For all intensive purproses Anna is a one-dimensional beauty, not anything approaching a three-dimensional person.

Because, for me, the most disturbing part of the Man-Boy movies is not so much the presence of young, heteronormatively beautiful females, but the lack of character and comedic fairness afforded to them. Part of the “Average Guy / Hot Girl” phenomenan (although, notably, the men featured in these films are “average” in looks and physicality, while their behavior often contains greater than average components of near-sociopathic behavior, personal ineptitude, aggressiveness, and sometimes sadism) – is that the bumbling hero will end up with a woman in some grey area of supermodel / mom – she being afforded only the most superficial character traits of these socially-prescribed categories. Another article refers to this as “the current generation of romantic comedies that pair aged boy doofuses with women who are far more mature and responsible.” Yes, the morality and intelligence of the females in these films is notably more developed than the male, but it’s also boring. They are beautiful, humorless (although they allow poor behaviors to go mostly unchecked so therefore show some tolerance), devoted to their deeply-troubled males, and serve very little besides eye candy and a sort of “prize” for our heroes. It’s frustrating so few moviegoers speak out about this.

Because in film it seems we find old, ugly, fat, comedic or flawed females as either A. the butt of the joke, or B. completely unable to carry our interest in a typical lead role. Taking the analysis, only briefly, up to better caliber of film, consider last year’s The Wrestler. Mickey Rourke was touted as not only giving a good performance but achieving heights of physical inhabitance in his turn as the scarred, battered, beaten-up hard-living professional athlete at the end of his career. The filmmakers’ choice for his counterpart? Marissa Tomei as the “aging stripper”. Really? Is that what an old, blousy stripper typically looks like? Taken as one film, you cannot really find fault; but why is this what we see, over and over, an uninteresting but repetitive variation of Beauty and the Beast? Because we would not find an ugly, “old”, deeply flawed (or all three!) woman relatable or worthy of much notice or interest.

It’s worth a brief mention: Danny McBride’s rendition of Will is also problematic. Within seconds of our introduction to this man he has spewed forth a few varieties of verbal vomit: elaborating on his future plan to build a massive casino complete with huge parking lot, taking a wife to mate with and then, if she’s not pleasing, imprisoning her in the far wing of the gold-leaf massive building which features a prominent racist charicature of a Native American (I am not making this up!). The character of Will bothers me almost more than Anna, because he provides us the opportunity to laugh at “rednecks” and their backwardness, but also get our giggles on the racist, sexist, and heterosexist behaviors (identical to those displayed for decades past) he mawkishly provides. Ultimately during the film Will becomes a far more relatable, if still crude, character. And this, to me, is a good thing. These films are in the final analysis buddy movies; and this is one reason I enjoy and continue to watch them.

Because yes: I laugh with crude, profane humor, I love depictions of playful – and yes, at times asinine – friendships, and I fiercely enjoy random, inane comedy. The funny moments in Land of the Lost – and there were many – were those where the camera lingered on Ferrell or Will as they were allowed to perform as unbalanced and very human characters with their own stories, their own weirdnesses. Why was this not afforded to the sole female in the film?

Too much analysis? I don’t think so. We have seen these same patterns, this same diminishment to the female, repeated in not only today’s Judd Apatow vehicles but movies spanning back through my cinematic memory. Pop culture is both a window into how we view our world and a mirror for which we can gaze, reflect, and self-correct. When we see a slew of same-minded pheomena, it can be informative to investigate why these memes exist, what they say about our culture, why they’re appreciated, and when and why they should carry some misapprehension.

I have decided it will only be when we have more female writers, directors, and producers, and more intelligent, discerning, and fair-minded men involved in the process that I can enjoy these comedies not just in my gut but in my mind and heart. In the meantime, I will enjoy the slapstick moments, the silly references to sexual appetite, the unnecessary and aggressive “fuck you’s!”, the odd impersonations and absurd and unbelievable scenarios Ferrell and his ilk deliver, as best I can.

Further reading: “Ah, Hollywood, where men will be boys”

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Photo credit: “happy sailing” from x_ray_ on Flickr; used under Creative Commons license Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0).

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