Ladybrain Feminist Reviews: Because Messages Matter

"The Iron Lady" and Margaret Thatcher's Legacy

2012-01-22T19:43:00.000-08:00

Check out my tame, though sincere, take on The Iron Lady on the American Association of University Women's blog.

‘Tangled’ Confuses Itself for an Empowering Rapunzel Remake (Plus, Postmodernism and Postfeminism Defined, Poorly!)

2011-08-10T14:00:00.001-07:00

Last year’s animated Disney release Tangled, which reimagines the life and adventures of fairy-tale maiden Rapunzel, is a prime example of why the morals of contemporary cinema are sometimes so difficult to pin down.

Tangled follows the same basic premise as the original Grimm’s tale: A long-haired blonde grows up sequestered in a tower, raised by a witchy woman who isn’t her mother. A princely type dude who is ultimately a love interest comes upon the tower, the witchy woman injures the dude and ultimately Sister Golden Hair heals him and they live happily ever after, probably as royalty. But this film departs from the original in a few ways that are important to a feminist analysis. First, Rapunzel’s hair and powers are crucial to why she’s imprisoned in the tower in the first place. Rapunzel’s golden hair magically keeps her adoptive mother, the vain Gothel, young. And if Rapunzel’s hair is ever cut, it turns brown (yikes, there’s something very Aryan-paranoid about that) and loses its magic.

Recirculating the cinema trope of the older, single woman as hateful and menacing is nothing new, but I hate to see it revisited, especially since it recirculates two gross ideas: that when women try to look young—as we’re constantly told we need to—they become monstrous and that women who aren’t married are violently threatening to the nuclear family. Watch Sunset Boulevard, among many other films, or read the “Scary Women: Cinema, Surgery and Special Effects” chapter of Carnal Thoughts for analysis on how we reproach women who go too far to look younger. And see Fatal Attraction, The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, Single White Female and many, many other films for examples of single women viciously disturbing heterosexual life with their spinster-ness.

The other big departure Tangled makes from the original fairy tale is the characterization of Rapunzel herself as a heroine instead of a damsel in distress. Certainly, if you read the Grimm’s version, Rapunzel does almost nothing but grow strong hair, sing sweetly and cry magical tears. It’s true that Disney’s version of Rapunzel is more active in the shallow, postfeminist sense of “strong women characters” that are so often touted in postfeminist movies.

When this film was recommended to me, it’s this active nature and dynamism of the heroine that was cited—especially the fact that, at the end, Rapunzel makes the move to kiss her prince instead of the other way around. I’ll admit that the portrayal is nuanced, from a feminist perspective, and that it’s a pretty delightful movie (who can resist a smart-ass chameleon?), but part of the reason this review has taken me a month to start writing is that the final feminist verdict is murky at best because this text is the quintessence of a postmodern, postfeminist take on history, class and gender.

For those who live outside their own assholes (i.e. outside academia), let me briefly explain what I mean when I talk about postmodernism and postfeminism. Postmodernism as I understand it—and trust me, it’s a very shallow understanding—basically describes any cultural product that was made after World War II and thinks of itself as innovative and groundbreaking compared to the social, political and artistic norms of the past. Theorists like Frederic Jameson basically called bullshit on this notion and said that postmodern texts, while they think of themselves as radical and politically advanced, are really just the same ideas repackaged in shinier wrapping. Jameson described postmodern art as schizophrenic, shallow and always loyal to the capitalist status quo.

Postfeminism is an easier concept to wrestle with—it basically refers to any argument or text that furthers the idea that feminism as a theory, and especially as a political movement, is obsolete, passé, or otherwise unnecessary. When I think of postfeminism, I think of girl power, women-who-kick-ass and ersatz consumerist empowerment through things like buying clothes. These ideas tell us that we’ve made it, that sex equality has been achieved, so what are all of you killjoys still doing complaining about sexual assault, the gender pay gap and sexist representation in media when the war is over? Didn’t you get the memo? Women can do anything they want now, including buy lots of shoes.

It doesn’t take a whole lot of reflection or insight to realize that sexism is alive and well, so pseudo-empowerment is something that we should be concerned about as movie fans and media consumers. We should resist the idea that a text is empowering when it’s actually actively propping up sexism or whatever “ism” you’re concerned with critiquing.

So, what is it about Tangled that so exemplifies postmodernism and postfeminism? Well, the first thing is that Rapunzel as an active, feminist character is all over the place. She’s magically powerful, but only in very narrow, acceptably feminine ways—namely, healing and singing. She beats up her love interest Flynn Rider when he intrudes into her tower, but her weapons of choice are her hair, a symbol of her beauty turned powerful, and the wifely frying pan, a piece of kitchen equipment that is usually seen in comedies that turn domestic violence around into something large women inflict on slight men. She saves herself and her initially unwilling travel partner, Flynn, from life-threatening situations multiple times, but it's usually with her magical powers and feminine charm. Rapunzel’s goal of seeing an annual show of floating lanterns is what sets the journey in motion, so she’s actively making the story happen (as opposed to what Laura Mulvey describes as women characters being bystanders while the male protagonist does things to and around her), but it’s not really a radical expedition—she intends on going right back to her tower to paint and read (that sounds downright Victorian) once she has seen the lights.

Where Tangled does pave a clearer path for critique is where it addresses class relations. The film paints a portrait of a society ruled over by a benevolent king and queen whose daughter, who turns out to be Rapunzel, was kidnapped when she was a child. The plebeians love their rulers so much that they collectively mourn the heir to the throne’s disappearance every year on her birthday with a brilliant floating lantern display (similar to the commoners' Aurora song in Sleeping Beauty). Now isn’t that quaint. They joyfully celebrate their class status and dance around the kingdom outside their tidy, shabby-chic homes to vaguely Celtic music. They are clearly ecstatic to work in whatever trade they’re in, propping up their friendly monarchs’ palatial lifestyle. This heavenly class dynamic flies in the face of the brief brush with reality that the hero Flynn brings us when he talks about his childhood in an orphanage, which led to his thievery in adulthood.

Confused about what Tangled ultimately means? Me too! That’s the tricky part about postmodern texts. As Jameson says, they’re nearly impossible to pin down theoretically. So while I try hard to make definitive assessments as to what films are doing well and where they’re failing, this children’s film has been one of the most difficult ones for me to wrap my feminist head around. Of course, for many feminist media critics, the most important thing is to simply ask these questions and to know what you’re watching. That’s the fun—but also the curse—of being an active media consumer.

Bechdel Test: Pass

Overall Grade: B-

Feminist Grade: C

Filipino Teachers Sacrifice Home for a Living Wage in 'The Learning'

2011-06-27T06:32:00.000-07:00

Imagine you’re an educated person with a professional job, but that job—and any other you’re likely to find in your entire country—pays below the poverty line, and everyone you’ve ever known your whole life is desperately poor. What if you had a chance to make life better for your entire extended family? But there’s a catch: You have to work in another country for nine months of the year in a job that makes many run scared.

Ramona Diaz’ s documentary The Learning explores just this scenario for four math and science teachers from the Philippines who are recruited to teach in Baltimore’s underserved schools. The film follows their first year away from home. Growing up surrounded by crushing poverty despite their education, Dorotea Godinez, Angel Alim, Grace Amper and Rhea Espedido make the heart wrenching move to the United States—away from their beloved students, husbands, children, parents and friends—to become the breadwinners for their entire extended families.

This is possible because the United States has a hard time recruiting and keeping math and science teachers, especially in famously rough schools like the ones in Baltimore and Washington, D.C. And the women make about 25 times more than they were making as teachers in the Philippines: Godinez says that where she used to make about 180,000 pesos a year, she now makes over 3 million.

What Diaz lovingly shows throughout this documentary is the emotional and physical toll that transcontinental work takes on women whose usefulness to America’s children inevitably comes at the cost of breaking up their own families. And although the film illustrates this injustice clearly—especially in the epilogue, which makes explicit that the Philippines’ recent economic boom grows on the backs of its women’s transcontinental labor in the form of money sent back home—it’s disappointing to hear the four women display and recite the tenets of the American dream since it flies so violently in the face of their reality. When Alim encourages her students to never give up on their dreams by showing them footage of her trip to a Disney park and emphasizes to her family that she wants to dedicate her salary to their education so they can have a better life, it contradicts the terrible bargain she had to strike to escape poverty as an educated person.

These four women are clearly compassionate, talented educators who are taking every chance they have to make life better for themselves. It’s just unfortunate that they have to make that choice to begin with.

Watch the full episode. See more POV.

The Learning screened at Silverdocs in Silver Spring, Md. Visit the film’s Facebook to find a screening near you.

Dr. Quinn

2011-06-23T13:17:00.000-07:00

Time Warner can be counted among those who subscribe to the misbelief that feminism is somehow contrary to family values.

Another example of how feminism, to too many, is still considered a dirty word.

Gamers Hilarious, if Sometimes Pathetic, in Web Series The Guild

2011-06-15T18:08:00.000-07:00

When you think of gamers, you probably think of young, white, pale and dorky men who devote as much time to weird anime porn as they do to their beloved video games. Well, much as that world seems steeped in misogyny—perhaps because gamers tend to be dudes who are lower on the hetero dating food chain in general—the delightful web series The Guild gives us a look into the motivations and neuroses of a girl gamer and her wacky teammates in an online, multiplayer role-playing game that I can only guess is modeled after World of Warcraft.

Felicia Day of Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog fame writes and stars in the show, which launched in 2007 on YouTube and later on Microsoft video host Zune, which is based loosely on what she calls her own one-time addiction to gaming. The show follows the Knights of Good, a guild of players in an unnamed game that features warlocks, priests, gnomes, dinosaurs, spells and bloody battles with archaic weaponry. The guild is made up of a zany ensemble: the stingy leader and Vork, the needy and obsessive Zaboo, the immature loose cannon Bladezz, the delightfully neglectful mother Clara, the cold as ice Tinkerballa and our protagonist, the anxiety-ridden Codex (played by the fire-haired Day).

The best part of this series is seeing this hilarious ensemble cast of misfits interact with each other in the game and in real life. Since the guild members live in close proximity—presumably somewhere in southern California—the action starts off when the antisocial players are forced to meet in person for the first time. The zany Zaboo kicks off the action when he shows up at Codex’s doorstep, having mistaken a typo for a flirtatious emoticon. He has become infatuated with his guild priestess, and he basically doesn’t leave her alone for the next two seasons. Codex calls on her fellow Knights of Good to help her get Zaboo back home, where has absurd Oedipal issues waiting for him.

While gamers will surely enjoy the banter, the excitement over expansion options and the detailed jargon that goes right over my head, the show is plenty relatable without knowing what potions do and why avatars sometimes ride mastodons. Codex is a sometimes frustrating but usually endearing protagonist to follow. Her neuroses and anxieties start out a little dark—she even gets fired by her therapist in the first episode—but at her core, she’s an adorable, quirky gamer girl whom you root for in every raid, date or other quest.

From a feminist perspective, it’s interesting to see another view of gaming by following a fictitious group made up of half men, half women that is centered on one of the latter. In fact, Day said in an interview with Wired that part of the reason she wrote the show was to bust the myth that all gamers are teenage boys in basements and that quirky girl characters are best used as sidekicks. Codex is front and center, and her fellow women characters get plenty of screen time, too. They're certainly flawed, but they're not one-dimensional.

Clara leaves her kids in department stores with a baby monitor and skips her sister’s wedding to farm gold for a special orb, but she also had a cute relationship with her husband. Tink is bitter, emotionally unavailable and uses her sexuality to manipulate men, but she proves herself loyal to her guild and vulnerable when her character gets erased. Codex is virginal, meek and socially awkward, but she stands her ground with Zaboo’s clinginess, brings the guild together during tumultuous times and even has a one-night stand with a rival gamer.

Other than a rape joke in the first season, the implication that women like behavior like Zaboo’s creepy stalking and the intense hatred the characters all harbor for his overbearing mom, The Guild is pretty tame for a mainstream text. It follows women characters in a male-dominated social network and doesn’t ignore the credibility issues that come up for women within the game. At the same time, the show gives all of us skeptics a sympathetic view for what people get out of these games in one hilarious, enthralling six-minute episode after another.

Four seasons in, The Guild is going strong with insane characters (the flighty but delightful mom Clara and uber-miser Vork are personal favorites), hilarious writing, and off-beat misadventures. And according to Day’s Twitter, season five shot earlier this spring and should be posted later this summer. Make sure you catch up on the first four seasons on the show’s website or Netflix before then.

Logging off ...

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://video.msn.com/?mkt=en-us&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;vid=9c194351-975c-4b54-9462-e85b3e87af8e&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;src=CPSmall:shareBar:embed:null" target="_new" title="Season 4 - Episode 1 - Epic Guilt"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Video: Season 4 - Episode 1 - Epic Guilt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

Bechdel Grade: Pass

Feminist Grade: C-

Overall Grade: A

Bridesmaids: A Ladybrain Review

2011-05-31T12:50:00.000-07:00

In the feminist blogosphere, Judd Apatow’s name is synonymous with dude-bros, high-maintenance shrews and man-children. The writer and director who brought us some of the biggest sleeper hits of the early 2000s—The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up among them—has made his name with a series of movies about immature, loveable losers and the women who settle for them. After seeing much success with movies he wrote and directed, he produced a series of films that promising actors wrote, often starring themselves—Jason Segal wrote Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Seth Rogen wrote Superbad and Pineapple Express. In films like these, the women who reject our slacker protagonists are demonized and punished accordingly. For sins against Veronica Mars, the feminist blogosphere regards Apatow’s name with almost as much distain as Roman Polanski’s.

So imagine my conflicted feelings when Apatow approached a talented, hilarious actress to write a film for him to produce.

Feminists have largely seemed to get behind Bridesmaids, released three weeks ago, despite Apatow’s presence as a producer under the theory that if this film doesn’t do well at the box office, a woman-centered ensemble comedy will never be made in Hollywood ever again. Feminist icons implored women to show up at the box office in bridesmaids dresses. The biggest women in Hollywood website reports weekly on the film’s profits and box-office performance. Most dutiful feminists made their way to the theaters opening weekend, and the rest of us have filed in in the ensuing weeks.

Despite the fact that I tend to be a mite skeptical about purchasing-power activism and honestly had something better to do opening weekend, I did make it a priority to see Bridesmaids in its second weekend in theaters. And while I won’t tell you it’s politically revolutionary to go see this movie, I will tell you that you will absolutely love Bridesmaids because it’s just as irreverent, hilarious and heartwarming as you’ve heard.

Bridesmaids tells the story of Annie (Kristen Wiig) and Lillian (Maya Rudolph), who are best friends forever until a series of increasingly unfortunate, hilarious and cringe-worthy events that are set off by planning Lillian’s impending nuptials. The pair’s endearing, wacky BFF status is put to the test when the more polished but lonely bridesmaid Helen (Rose Byrne) tries to copycat her way into Lillian’s graces to dethrone Annie as maid of honor. What ensues is a tornado path of pettiness and absurdity wherein Annie sinks ever lower to hit rock bottom before she sinks a little lower.

As all Hollywood films do, Bridesmaids does leave some feministy things to be desired. This movie is clearly seeped in the logic of heteronormativity and old-maid phobia that has been canonized in romantic comedies, and some of bridesmaid Megan’s (Melissa McCarthy) antics can certainly be read as fat hate. The film is set in a traditionally acceptable feminine theme of wedding-planning (though a wholly irreverent version), features a protagonist whose career ambition is also acceptably womanly (she bakes), pits two conniving women against each other and throws in an accusation of lesbianism as an insult.

But along with these imperfections, Bridesmaids gets a lot of things right. It was written by two women (Wiig and Annie Mumolo), features women who candidly complain about sex and children, and has a villainess who is more pitiable than evil. But what struck a chord most with me was its celebration of women’s friendship.

Although we only see Annie and Lillian alone in a few scenes, I chose to see Bridesmaids as a love story of best friends, even though much screen time is spent on Annie’s relationship with an unassuming, appropriately working-class policeman. The writers and director Paul Feig (that skinny guy from Heavy Weights) make this stretch into resistant spectatorship even easier by showing Lillian’s husband in only two scenes that I remember. But as someone who fiercely loves her best friend and has fiercely reacted when I felt like someone was trying to threaten that relationship, Bridesmaids was cathartic, if not advisable as a guide for how to behave in life or in bridal parties.

So if you are a lady who loves your friends, go see Bridesmaids, preferably with said friends. I won’t tell you it will solve the sexism in film problem, but I will tell you it’s a damn good, lady-friendly time.

Bechdel Grade: Pass

Feminist Grade: B-

Overall Movie Grade: A

The Romantics: A Catch-Up Review

2011-05-25T07:43:00.000-07:00

The Romantics had big shoes to fill. It was released at the tail end of a slew of indie-aesthetic films about miserable people attending the rural, New-York-area weddings of brides and grooms the protagonists resent for one reason or another. In 2007, there was Margot at the Wedding and in 2008, Rachel Getting Married. The wedding theme, ensemble casts, dim lighting, choppy camera work and cringe-worthy antics of our leading ladies link these three films. Unfortunately for the other two, Rachel Getting Married is the golden child in this triumvirate. Given the blazed trail, though, The Romantics promised something different enough that I actively sought it out, and I maintain that its differences in form, lovely casting and open-ended conclusion make it more than a tagalong to better wedding films. In fact, it’s much better than the miserable whine-fest that was Margot at the Wedding.

The Romantics is a surprisingly fun version of a cliché story: two friends fighting over a dude. It’s no surprise that one of the women represents out-of-control passion while the other is a beacon of sensibility—women characters in film rarely break the dichotomous trend of embodying only one trait at a time, usually either pure malice or pure grace.

This film tells the story of a group of friends who meet and fall in love, a la St. Elmo’s Fire, at Yale. Poetry buff Laura (Katie Holmes) takes up with the similarly literary-minded Tom (Josh Duhamel—who knew he did anything worthwhile but marry Fergie?). Somewhat inexplicably, these two break up, and Tom starts dating the comely, rich Lila (Anna Paquin), Laura’s best friend and roommate. This love triangle is emblematic of the larger group of seven friends, who earned the nickname The Romantics for their “incestuous dating history.” Years after Laura and Tom’s breakup, these three reunite—along with their four other college friends—for Tom and Lila’s wedding at her parents’ coastal estate.

The setup is something we’ve all seen before, courtesy of the Brat Pack and countless romantic comedies. But The Romantics redeems itself with a few variations, the most interesting of which is the structure. This film spends a remarkable amount of time with the ample supporting cast, which includes Dianna Agron, Elijah Wood, Candace Bergen and Malin Akerman. The way these characters pop in and out of scenes—hiding in corners, overhearing whispered conversations, switching romantic partners—is delightfully operatic. At times, you almost expect characters to launch into soliloquies or recitatives. Writer and director Galt Niederhoffer takes a Shakespearean approach to storytelling, deftly connecting the disparate vignettes together to add levity and heart to a film that could have easily fallen into romantic-comedy hell in less capable hands.

Unlike your typical big-budget wedding fare, The Romantics is also unapologeticly ambiguous in meaning and somewhat in morals. It gives us awkwardness—thankfully not on level with Rachel Getting Married—but not necessarily the clear answer. Maybe this is just resistant spectatorship talking, but it wasn’t clear which woman was right for Tom in the way that most love-driven films make that choice abundantly clear. In fact, the complicated friendship between the two leading ladies was much more interesting than Tom’s boring and aimless equivocating.

Don’t expect The Romantics to reinvent the genre, but do expect to see Niederhoffer take liberties with plot and form conventions that make this film worthy of your Netflix queue.

Bechdel Grade: F

Feminist Grade: D

Overall Movie Grade: B-

A Nine-Month Hiatus, Not for Gestation

2011-05-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

It's hardly a shame to abandon a blog that nobody reads. But all the same, now that summer has arrived, you'll be treated to more feminist film musings from this ladybrain. The good news is that after a nine-month hiatus to start school and a new job, there's plenty still to say about women's representation in the media. The bad news is that it's mostly the same defensive reaction against Hollywood bullshit. Eh, that's OK. Feminists love to complain.

I'm sure you'll find that after two semesters in a liberal-arts program, my film critiques will now be peppered with pompous grad-school neologisms and vocabulary misuse: The invention of "problematize" and the erroneous use of "reify" to mean "strengthen" are among my favorite blowhard usages. Though the first two semesters of my women's studies master's program were rough on my schedule, I did learn a ton about feminist theory, media analysis and film theory. So hopefully my reviews will be beefed with more feminist cred and more nuanced film analysis.

So while I'm on summer break, I hope to bring you more reviews of current films (I was a bad, bad feminist and didn't see Bridesmaids on opening weekend, but that's on the docket for Friday); a series on black-film history (inspired by my class at Howard University last semester); and a few posts on John Hughes films, Battlestar Galactica and feminist psychoanalytic film theory--just to make sure my 200ish pages of final papers weren't a complete waste of time.

A Call Girl: A Ladybrain Review

2011-02-09T05:59:00.000-08:00

“Life is just one big disappointment after another,” laments the main character Alexandra in Damjan Kozole’s award-winning film about a Slovenian college student who delves into prostitution. Unfortunately for Alexandra and for viewers, the tone of A Call Girl never ascends much higher that that sentiment.

To her small town father, Alexandra seems like a bright, if moody, college student working on her English skills in Slovenia’s capital, Ljubljana. Her family and friends question some of her tendencies—buying an expensive apartment and owning two cell phones—but by the time the audience meets Alexandra, she’s already very skilled at living her double life, whipping out excuses and fake illnesses to cover her tracks.

But Alexandra’s venture into prostitution unveils scarier and scarier problems for her—the constant threat of violent pimps and disturbing blackmail from friends who find out her secret, on top of the stress of school and mortgage payments. The sex worker lifestyle doesn’t reward Alexandra well, and her story is a fine example of why sex workers who are in the trade by choice or coercion should have legal protections. Thankfully, some feminist groups are leading the charge to offer sex workers just that.

A Call Girl is certainly a dark and pensive film, but it’s not completely without hope. The settings are artfully gritty. The opening and closing shots in particular are compelling because of the patience Kozole exercises to zero in on his main character’s expressions. But those scenes would be lost without the lead actress’ charisma. The role of Alexandra is shockingly Nina Ivanisin’s debut, and she rightfully earned kudos for her performance at the Valencia Festival of Mediterranean Cinema.

This film’s themes about prostitution are pretty clear cut. It’s not a ringing endorsement of the industry, but rather a reflection of its workers’ vulnerability to abuse. Ultimately, the responsibility for violence and coercion of women, including sex workers, has to fall squarely on the perpetrators of that abuse.

This review was originally published at Elevate Difference.

The Social Network: A Ladybrain Review

2010-10-04T11:27:00.000-07:00

When trailers for The Social Network started playing in theatres over the summer, it was unclear whether what is better known colloquially as “the Facebook movie” would glorify the famously young billionaire Mark Zuckerberg or indict him for the misogynistic origins of his ubiquitous invention. From a feminist standpoint, sitting through asshole apologia would have been too much to bear.

So it’s a good thing that throughout The Social Network Zuckerberg’s character—as brilliantly played by the formerly nice-guy typecasted Jesse Eisenberg—invokes only disgust and pity, heavily weighted toward the former. The Social Network tells the story of Zuckerberg, a smart but absurdly arrogant Harvard College student with a hell of an inferiority complex. After his girlfriend Erica dumps him in the opening scene, Zuckerberg invents Facebook’s precursor website while drunkenly nursing a broken…um…sense that Erica should have tolerated him. That first website was Face Mash—what became known as the “Hot or Not” of Harvard, a site where young men could rate their women classmates' hotness. Charmingly, Zuckerberg figures that all women should pay and be “treated like farm animals” because he got justifiably dumped.

Herding, taming and acquiring women in reality and online emerges as a disturbing trend throughout Facebook’s history—from its origins in Face Mash to school-expansion choices to the inevitable groupies that emerge once the site hits big. Even Zuckerberg’s loser hero Sean Parker (a completely watchable Justin Timberlake) confesses that he founded Napster to attract the attention of a crush. Along the way, Zuckerberg enjoys mostly self-loathing (hey, I hate you, too buddy) and a little sex in a bathroom, but still pines away for ex-girlfriend Erica. But it’s not the loss of love and companionship he's lamenting; it’s the absence of a target for verbal abuse, and that she can't be conquered or won over regardless of his accomplishments. They don’t overshadow the fact that he’s an insufferable asshole.

These themes about women are surely troubling. That they play out with drug use and sometimes with girls under the age of consent is even more so. But although these themes are present, for the most part they’re clearly associated with poor behavior and bad people. Zuckerberg clearly hates women and so does Parker, but at least these two douchebags are the bad guys.

Aside from the many, many abhorrent examples of Zuckerberg’s misogyny, he’s also just a weasel in general. The film follows Facebook from its origins to its inevitable lawsuits, since Zuckerberg arguably took the idea from his classmates and then screwed over his only friend (and primary investor) when Facebook got its big financial break—all this in less than a year.

What’s really amazing about The Social Network is that the person we spend the most time with—the main character—is the bad guy. He’s not an anti-hero, he’s just a villain. Writer Alan Sorkin manages to tell a dialogue-heavy story starring a pathetic, hateful character. And although this is a fictionalized account, time stamps and flashbacks from legal arbitrations balance beautifully creating a sense of photojournalism on one hand and artful cinematography on the other.

This film is fascinating and well executed and, let’s face it, it’s fun to watch Zuckerberg be lampooned. In the end, it’s arguable whether he got what he deserved (after all, he’s still absurdly rich). But at least his reputation will be deservedly hammered.

Go see The Social Network, especially if you’re on Facebook. It’s important to see an origin story for a medium so many of us use, even if it’s an admittedly exaggerated account. If even half of this stuff is true, it should make us sick that we’re helping make this piece of crap a billionaire.

Also, bonus points for awesome rowing footage and a truly bizarre set of twins.

Bechdel Grade: F

Feminist Grade: C

Overall Movie Grade: A

The Other Guys: A Ladybrain Review

2010-08-16T16:12:00.000-07:00

Adam McKay is one of a million: a writer and director who can put together a great trailer. Too bad the feature presentation of The Other Guys is so long and boring that it chokes on its own machismo.

The underwhelming tragedy of The Other Guys is that Saturday Night Live veteran McKay is the same fellow behind the hilarious Funny or Die short The Landlord and Anchorman. Then again, he’s also the guy behind other Will Ferrell flops like [Talladega Nights and Step Brothers.] Clearly, the McKay and Ferrell duo is destined to be hit-or-miss.

The Other Guys starts off promising. Two over-the-top cop heroes (Dwayne Johnson and Samuel L. Jackson) barrel through New York City chasing teenagers who are in possession of a negligible amount of marijuana. They destroy millions of dollars of property and endanger dozens of lives, but they do it to the soundtrack of their own gunfire and acerbic quips. These two men get the glory—and of course, the trophy sex-with-women that goes along with it. The other dozen New York Police Department detectives—they get the paperwork.

This film is the story of two NYPD “other guys.” Desk-ridden detective partners Terry Hoitz (Mark Wahlberg) and Allen Gamble (Ferrell) don’t get out from behind their computers much, because one accidentally shot someone and the other craves safety. These two uncover a fishy financial deal, but for reasons completely unexplained (there’s no corruption involved) the police chief and district attorney thwart Hoitz and Gamble’s every move to investigate.

What follows is 107 minutes that will seem like an eternity of you’re-like-a-woman-and-that’s-bad jokes. Because, you see, there are apparently no women in this film’s NYPD (aside from a counselor), and the men basically only insult each other about being effeminate. What defines lady-like in The Other Guys? The way one’s urine sounds hitting a urinal, talking about shooting someone without bragging or driving a Prius (bonus points for equating environmentalism with emasculation). And what defines manhood? Learning to dance just to make fun of homos, lamenting the fact that your son is bisexual or saying the word “bitch” ad nauseam. And the thing is, you don’t particularly care if Gamble and Hoitz catch the bad guy (Steve Coogan), because Gamble is an accountant at heart, and Hoitz is just an unrelenting asshole. The bad guy is much more entertaining.

But even if you were following the plot, the barrage of woman-hating language and themes in this film is hugely distracting, although frankly there’s not much to distract from. Aside from the language, there’s the classic (and somehow never not endearing in the world of film) side plot about a girlfriend who went from restraining order to marriage vows in about 15 minutes since, really, stalking is flattering in romantic courtship.

And then there’s the whole Gamble’s ugly wife joke. The twist here is that his wife (Eva Mendes) is objectively hot, if you’re into the whole American-beauty-standards ideal. Ferrell’s character spends the whole film lamenting, to her and to others, that she’s an ugly duckling and sucks at cooking. The ways he seems dissatisfied are the things that are traditionally valued in women—beauty and domestic aptitude. Hoitz and the audience wonder throughout the film: What’s the reason for Gamble’s odd point of view? Well, Gamble later confesses that he doesn’t feel he deserves such a wonderful, beautiful wife so he understates her attributes (to say the least) to keep her from leaving him. How sweet, and how unlike real-life domestic violence.

Hands down, the best part of this dud is the credits, which graphically show how a Ponzi scheme works (I guess all of a sudden this film considers itself to mostly be about finance?). These credits will cool you down from being pissed that you heard the best jokes a month ago when you saw the trailer before Inception. You’ll realize while watching the credits that the inexplicable narration voice you were trying to place is Law & Order’s Ice-T. You’ll also realize you should have lobbied harder to see The Kids Are All Right earlier that evening.

Please, stay away from this drivel. Even the above examples don’t fully capture the constant onslaught of absurd fodder this film gives even the most casual feminist (or person who thinks that women are full humans). Let’s wrap this piece of crap up with a few words of wisdom, courtesy of The Other Guys: “She overreacted… she’s a woman.”

Bechdel Grade: Fail

Feminist Grade: F

Overall Movie Grade: F

Speaking in Tongues: A Ladybrain Review

2010-08-11T16:21:00.000-07:00

Watch out for the new documentary Speaking in Tongues, playing on PBS and at film festivals. Fair warning: You will see the error of English-only legislation, and you'll want to move to San Francisco if you plan on having children.

Check out Smalls' review over at our favorite like-minded review site.

SPEAKING IN TONGUES TRAILER from PatchWorks Films on Vimeo.

Is Cheerleading a Sport?

2010-07-23T11:06:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday a federal judge ruled that a Connecticut university couldn't replace women's volleyball with a competitive cheer squad without violating Title IX, the federal law that prohibits gender discrimination in school activities. The rule most often applies to sports opportunities.

Schools sometimes use cheerleading programs as an excuse to boost their women's athletics opportunities, instead of developing NCAA-recognized sports teams.

Given that cheerleading is, by it's nature, a sport that was meant to play a supportive role to men's athletic teams, this news fell on cynical and unsympathetic ears. All three of the authors here at Ladybrain were high school and college athletes. None were the cheerleading type. We'll support women's athletics in whatever form women choose to participate, but this ruling seems right on. Until competitive cheerleading is an organized, independent NCAA-recognized sport, volleyball and rugby teams shouldn't be axed in favor of a cheaper (an incidentally, more ladylike) team.

Toy Story 3: A Ladybrain Review

2010-06-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

Pixar, how do you manage to reveal our most embarrassing selves—the ones that cheer for robot love and burst into tears at the prospect of toy incineration?

The writers and animators at Pixar must have collectively sold their souls to Satan, because against all sequels-usually-suck odds, they’ve done it again.

The Toy Story franchise began back in 1995, following the adventures of a group of toys lovingly owned by a boy named Andy (John Harris—fun fact: Harris voiced Andy in all three films). Their misadventures with cool-toy-rivalry, a sadistic pyromaniac and, later, an evil collector’s toy in 1999’s Toy Story 2 center around Woody the cowboy (Tom Hanks), Buzz Lightyear (Tim Allen) and later, Jessie the cowgirl (Joan Cusack), in addition to a slinky-dog and Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head among others.

Eleven years later, Toy Story 3 picks up where toy-owner Andy would be in real life: leaving for college. The toy gang has dwindled—old favorites like Bo Peep and Etch-A-Sketch have been lost along the way—and only the cream of the crop remain stashed in Andy’s toy trunk. He hasn’t opened the trunk in years, preferring more age-appropriate toys like electric guitar and a computer. The toys prepare themselves for a comfortable existence in the attic, but through a series of mistakes, they end up at a daycare center that promises endless cadres of kids who want to play with the toys. But the daycare, ruled by a mangy, strawberry-scented bear, might not be all it’s cracked up to be.

Through some harrowing and often hilarious misadventures, the toys find their way to Andy, who has to make a choice about whether he can part with all of his old friends.

From the feminist view, there’s a lot of positive fodder to work with. Toy Story 3 does pass the Bechdel test. Female characters don’t have lengthy discussions with one another, but then again, this is a movie about toys getting from one place to another, so there’s not much in the way of philosophizing among the male characters, either.

Of the female toy characters, Barbie plays a funny and pretty awesome role, especially given the beauty standards and vapidity that are usually associated with the toy. Mrs. Potato head’s talent for removable organs sure comes in handy, and a creepy, mutinous baby plays a major role in the toys’ success. Jessie the cowgirl, known for her chutzpah and cunning, disappointingly doesn’t play as big of a role in the adventure portion, making way for a less-interesting but humorous romantic subplot involving her and Buzz.

While the moms in Toy Story 3 stereotypically do all of the nurturing, it seems that Andy’s father isn’t in the picture, literally—implied by a photo of Andy at his high school graduation with his mom and sister at his side. Thus, mom is the one doing the nurturing because she’s a single parent. And though Andy’s mom and sister are only in supporting roles, new character Bonnie co-stars as the delightful new incarnation of loving toy owner Andy. She’s just as imaginative and kind as her predecessor, and she just might be the best person to give his old companions a second wind.

Bechdel Test: Pass

Feminist Grade: B

Overall Movie Grade: A

Toy Story 3 dares you not to laugh out loud, or cry, or both. Watch the trailer here.

Anti-Rape Condom Debuts in South Africa

2010-06-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

A South African doctor has invented an anti-rape female condom dubbed Rape-axe, which debuted at the World Cup this week in a country that boasts the highest HIV rate in the world, and where one-quarter of men are admitted rapists.

On the first read, this product seems amazing in the sense that rapists certainly deserve to have teeth-like hooks lodged in their penises, and that this evidence--only removable by a doctor--would hopefully lead to more rape convictions. But, as ever, the Shakesville community brings insight and realism into the discussion. Read what they're saying.

The sad fact is, no weaponized female condom is a panacea for stopping rape. For one thing, it's yet another way that the onus is placed on the victims of rape. We're all unfortunately familiar with the canards that women ask for rape, based on clothing choice or daring to have a drink or walk down the street. Women are supposed to constantly be on guard: carry pepper spray, take self-defense classes, don't go to frat parties and now perhaps wear a weaponized condom.

Realistically, there are many downsides to consider with this invention, as Melissa McEwan describes: violent retaliation, threats of death to remove the condom, increased risk for HIV transmission if the rapist is bleeding, and the rapist resorting to other forms of sexual assault among other issues.

All of that is secondary to the awful truth that, in order for Rape-axe to work properly as a weapon or a rape deterrent, at least a few women still must be raped.

It's amazing that a product like this has debuted, but let's not kid ourselves thinking that this solves the problem. To combat this issue, people need to stop raping other people. And make no mistake: most rapists are men. When 99 percent of female victims and 85 percent of male victims were raped by men, it sure seems like the responsibility for stopping rape should fall on the sex that's overwhelmingly more likely to rape.

Mabel Normand Film Discovered Intact

2010-06-08T12:13:00.000-07:00

A treasure trove of American silent films from the 1910s and 1920s have been discovered in a vault in Australia.

Among them is the film Won in a Closet (Keystone Film Company, 1914), the first surviving movie directed by and starring Mabel Normand.

Normand was an American silent film comedian and actress and is noted as one of the film industry's first female screenwriters, producers, and directors. Onscreen she co-starred in commercially successful films with Charlie Chaplin and Roscow Arbuckle, occasionally writing and directing movies featuring Chaplin. At the height of her career in the late 1910s and early 1920s, Normand had her own movie studio and production company.

There's treasure everywhere!

Apocalypse Now: A Ladybrain Review

2010-06-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every feminist’s life when she (or he or zie) turns that critical feminist lens on her old favorite films, books and music: the classics. These are pieces of art that ushered us through our angsty teenage years, comforted us on rainy days and provided invaluable shared experiences with family and friends.

But at some point, one revisits those works as an adult person. It isn’t always pleasant. You suddenly see the rape apologia and racism in wholesome old comedies. Homophobia, classism, sexism, ableism—it’s all there. So before you wax poetic about how Full Metal Jacket is your favorite movie, take another look at what you’re promoting.

Thus began a series of Ladybrain Reviews: Smalls’ favorite films of all time.

By the time Apocalypse Now hit theatres in 1979, Francis Ford Coppola was already one of the most famous writers and directors in Hollywood. With hits like The Godfather (plus its sequel) and The Conversation under his belt, he hardly needed to prove himself with an artsy war epic. Written and developed over the course of a few years, Apocalypse Now seemed more and more like a pet project by the time Coppola took the helm as director. At that point, several directors (including Steven Spielberg and George Lucas) had declined to take on the project, even at Coppola’s behest. The production itself was fraught with major delays, set-destroying storms, excessive spending, a heart attack and an unexpectedly overweight Marlon Brando.

Since the press had a field day with the years-long disaster of a production process, Apocalypse Now already had a bad reputation when it started screening, in various unfinished iterations. The turning point was its screening at the Cannes Film Festival in 1979, where it won the Palm d’Or, setting the stage for critical praise and awards nominations later that year.

Thirty years later, Apocalypse Now is widely considered one of the best films ever made, certainly topping other Vietnam films and most war films in general. It is the story of special forces Capt. Benjamin Willard (Martin Sheen)—an intense and focused soldier already too disturbed by war to function in civilization—and his mission to terminate the command of Col. Walter Kurtz (Marlon Brando), for war crimes. Kurtz is camped upriver in Cambodia, installing himself as a sort of murderous, philosophizing demigod ruling over the local Cambodian highlanders. Willard’s orders are to terminate Kurtz’s command and, in one of the coolest lines in modern cinema—“terminate, with extreme prejudice” the colonel himself.

Apocalypse Now hits a nerve as a war film, and as a commentary on the barbaric and uncontrollable nature of war and of human cruelty. Kurtz philosophizes that strategically, to win wars, soldiers have to be capable of horrific, inhuman violence. And within that landscape, it’s impossible to really tell the good guys from the bad. Willard’s superiors send him on a mission to kill one of their own soldiers—a highly decorated war hero—for murder, in the middle of a war zone. As Willard points out, charging someone for murder in Vietnam was like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500.

The fact is, there are atrocities on all sides of war. Collateral damage is a given, and we’ve reduced all of those warriors and enemies and civilians to nameless, faceless statistics. At best, they’re rows and rows and rows of white gravestones in Arlington National Cemetery—and justification for more war hawking. Apocalypse Now should make us think about how senseless and chaotic and cruel war inevitably is.

And that’s exactly what this film does, to the tune of “The End” by The Doors and a truly creepy, evolving synth score. Coppola edited the over 1 million feet of film footage expertly—what remains are excellent overlays to bookend the film and foreshadow Willard’s dilemma. Scenes of Willard's escorts, the PBR crew, dancing to the Rolling Stones and water-skiing en route upriver and Robert Duvall’s character (Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore, of “napalm in the morning” and “Ride of the Valkyries” fame) lend dark humor. Shots of Willard slowly rising up above the steaming, muddy river’s surface, and of a darkly shadowed Kurtz, along with expertly written and delivered dialogue and voice-over, set this film apart as a deliberate and disturbing work of art. Expertly crafted, fraught in most ways film production can go wrong, it was a struggle and a work in progress, but in the end it was a magnum opus.

From the feminist perspective, though, the first thing one might notice is that there are almost no women in this film.

Women, in this narrative, have no place in war. Although American women have served in the military in official and unofficial positions since the American Revolution, they’ve never been technically allowed in combat (though the conditions of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars are certainly blurring the lines). Women don’t serve alongside soldiers like Capt. Willard, or the crew of the PBR Street Gang. American women are spared that horror. Wives and mothers are safe in the states, left behind after their sons and husbands are killed or emotionally ruined from war. American women are spared the jungle horrors of Vietnam, except for the soldiers' sex objects.

Two Playboy Bunnies have the honor of the only speaking roles for women in the original Apocalypse Now release. Three bunnies helicopter in for a USO-sponsored entertainment tour deep in the warzone. Soon after they start the show, the hundreds of rowdy soldiers start rushing the stage after screaming things like, “take it off, you bitch.” The only lines the girls have are flirtatious and sexual, and in direct response to the men’s jeers. After the men bombard the stage, the women flee with their male escort in a helicopter, which several soldiers cling to even after it launches.

These three women came to the warzone to entertain their war-ravaged countrymen. Granted, it was as sexual objects, but nevertheless their mission was in line with usual USO tours, to liven soldiers’ spirits when they’re far from home. But the men that greet the bunnies in Vietnam aren’t the brothers, fathers and friends these women remember from home—they’re savage and hateful animals. And while war can’t be blamed for the association sexual objectification has with misogyny, it certainly seems to augment it in this narrative. The soldiers want the bunnies sexually, but also feel the need to insult and demean them. By rushing the stage, there’s a strong implication that the soldiers will start assaulting the bunnies. The women need to be suddenly evacuated, for protection from their own countrymen.

The Vietnamese and Cambodian characters get even less screen time and no dialogue. The first Vietnamese woman onscreen is a Viet Cong fighter, who throws her hat into an American helicopter when Lt. Col. Kilgore and his troops attack her village—to secure it for safe surfing, of all reasons. Another helicopter guns her down, while Kilgore calls her a savage.

Later, when the PBR crew stops to do a “routine check” of a random sampan, a crew member opens fire and kills everyone but a severely wounded Vietnamese woman, whose sudden movement prompted the gunfire. As it turns out, her sudden movement was an attempt to get to her puppy, which was hidden in a basket. After pumping her with bullets, the PBR crew chief wants to bring her to a hospital since she’s still breathing. Not wanting to delay his mission, Willard kills the woman. He likens the situation to splitting someone in half and then offering her a Band-Aid.

The last female character is a Cambodian mountain highlander, one of the dozens of people living under the part cult, part reign of terror that Kurtz leads in a Buddhist temple beyond most of the warfare. This woman has no lines. Though there’s a vague implication that she might be Kurtz’s lover—she’s often in the background for Kurtz’s harangues, and looks on with presumably lament during and before his murder. But considering Kurtz’s ruling style—dead bodies strewn and strung up everywhere, presumably as warning signs to dissenters—it’s hard to imagine that this woman has an equal partnership with Kurtz, if they’re involved. Therefore, the implication that she’s more a combination of slave and concubine seems reasonable.

The roles of the Playboy Bunnies and an offscreen French woman are expanded in the Redux, but since the original film is the version that is most widely recognized, that extra footage won't be addressed here. For the most part, the women of Apocalypse Now take a back seat for the film's entire 153 minutes. When they do appear, they're as collatoral damage, enemies, supposed sluts or uncomprehending wives left behind.

From what movies and history tell us, we should all be spared from war. But within war zones, let's not pretend that women don't fight bravely or get caught in the crossfire.

Bechdel Test: Fail

Feminist Grade: F

Overall Movie Grade: A

Ouch, these letters look so ugly next to each other.

An all-women professional conference

2010-05-26T05:57:00.001-07:00

Can you imagine an all women professional conference? There's a big conference in a serious professional field and it's all women! You show up, you give talks, you listen, you take notes, you hardly notice that there are no men. Or maybe there are two or three, but they're easy to ignore, because in this very serious field, the opinions of men aren't very well respected.

Ok, such a conference doesn't exist. But men get to do this all the time. I'm currently working a temporary job that involves handing out credentials to various crew members of the memorial day concert at a desk in a hotel lobby downtown. Today, about 60 people, all of them men, asked me how to get to the Army Corps of Engineers meeting being held downstairs.

Why Messages Matter

2010-05-25T11:06:00.000-07:00

Messages matter. You already know that from our well-placed blog header. But now you're certain, because UN Deputy Secretary-General Asha-Rose Migiro is preaching the good word.

Migiro is calling on international media outlets to stop stereotyping gender roles, saying that sterotyping fosters gender discriminiation, which is "the root cause of violence against women and girls."

It's a tall order, and as Migiro points out, it's not something that legislation can necessarily fix. It'll take good faith effort on the news media's part, and a hell of a lot of watchdogging on ours. Thank goodness Shakesville and to a less-searchable extent, Media Matters and other online outlets already document sexism in news and advertising.

Check out Melissa McEwan's sexist advertising chronicles. While you're at Shakes Manor, see the Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin sexism watches.

Today in Why I'm Not a Catholic

2010-05-17T12:50:00.000-07:00

In more lamentable news from our home state, a nun at St. Joseph's hospital was rebuked and excommunicated for allowing an abortion for a woman who probably would have died during pregnancy. The nun--an administrator at the Catholic hospital--made the life-or-death decision along with an ethics committee, doctors and the patient.

According to the medical directives that the hospital follows, abortion is defined as the directly intended termination of pregnancy, and it is not permitted under any circumstances - even to save the life of the mother.
...James J. Walter, professor of bioethics at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles, a Catholic university, said that is a tough argument to make. He said a pregnancy may be terminated only in limited, indirect circumstances, such as uterine cancer, in which the cancer treatment takes the life of the fetus. Catholic teaching, he said, is that a pregnancy cannot be terminated as a means to an end of saving the life of a mother who is suffering from a different condition. Asked if the church position prefers the mother and child to die, rather than sparing the life of one of them, Walters said the hope is that both would survive.

No, pregnancy isn't the condition this woman is suffering from, but when it exacerbates her condition to the point of, uh, DEATH then you have some serious thinking to do. Which life is worthy of more respect? Catholic doctrine clearly chooses the fetus. I clearly choose the woman.

Ironman 2: A Ladybrain Review

2010-05-11T11:35:00.000-07:00

Before Ironman hit theatres in 2008, most of us thought of Jon Favreau as the guy who was so money, baby--and he didn't even know it. Critics and audiences expected little from yet another Marvel Comic inspired film. So when director Favreau delivered an entertaining film with tons of personality (mostly in the form of the amazing Robert Downey Jr.), it was an underdog smash.

And what should logically follow an over performing film (or an under performing one, for that matter) but a sequel.

Ironman 2 reintroduces weapons contractor and physicist extraordinaire Tony Stark as the unmasked Ironman, combating politicians who want Stark to share his Ironman technology with the U.S. government for security. There's plenty to glean about private property rights and government corruption in this conflict, but you'll have to visit some other blog to satisfy your government paranoia.

While Stark tries to keep his intellectual property out of U.S. government and military hands, he's also contending with an old, Russian grudgeholder (Mickey Rourke), a suspicious but ogle-worthy new executive assistant (Scarlett Johansson) and his ever-nagging, inexplicable love interest Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow). All the while, he's scrambling to find the combination of elements that will power his suit and his heart without slowly poisoning his blood.

There are plenty of feminist elements at play here. First, we deal with the Pepper problem. The original film featured the bland and nagging, yet doggedly loyal Pepper Pots in her supportive role to the womanizing and sarcastic Tony. The only thing that really distinguished her was that she slut-shames the women Tony sleeps with, and that she looks bad in bangs. In the sequel, Tony promotes her to CEO of his company on a whim. Although she faces major scrutiny for her complete lack of experience, she deftly handles the company's affairs in a turbulent time. Unfortunately, Pepper's main purpose here is to glare at all the women Tony wants to sleep with--including hurling yet more insults at the reporter Tony slept with in the first film (Leslie Bibb), whose investigation played a key role in the plot. Her other competition in Ironman 2 is Natalie Rushman, whom Tony hires as his new assistant essentially just to look at her. After he meets Natalie for the first time, he declares, "I want one."

For her part, Natalie could have been the classic femme fatale. And although she has another identity, her character is smart, accomplished, all business and completely badass. She's an excellent employee, and although Tony attempts to play Pepper and Natalie off each other in a competition of feminine wiles, Natalie doesn't seem interested in anything but getting the job done, even with Tony's constant sexual harassment. These two women do briefly talk to each other about something other than a man a time or two, so Ironman 2 does (barely) pass the Bechdel test.

Within this context, these characters faced some sexist issues individually, in addition to some general woman-hating, in the following scenes.

At one point, the leader of the secret good-guys club (Samuel L. Jackson) uses the fact that Tony "made a girl your CEO" to prove that he is going off the deep end. The other reason was that he got drunk and basically destroyed his house with his Ironman suit. The problem isn't that Pepper has no experience, or that she doesn't have the leadership style. It's that she's a "girl" (Paltrow is 38-years-old, by the way, hardly a girl. Pepper's age isn't specified). And it's just as stupid to hire a girl to be a CEO as it is to basically drunk-drive a weaponized suit around dozens of party guests.

In another scene, creepy contractor Justin Hammer (Sam Rockwell) asks his colleagues to get "these bitches out of here" when Pepper and Natalie take over the reins of a weapons demonstration that turned deadly. Luckily for my temper, Natalie puts him in a headlock moments later, and the two women clean up his mess before Pepper has him arrested.

And in a well-trodden cheap shot at married women (oh, what ball-busting harpies we are), Hammer describes the utter devastation potential of a missile he's selling to the U.S. Air Force. What does he dub this harbinger of death? The Ex-Wife.

There's more to say, especially about Pepper and Tony's fraught and completely uninteresting flirtation (I know how to shut her up--I'll kiss her), but we've hit on the main points: slut-shaming, sexual harassment, girls are stupid, girls are bitches, marriage sucks the life out of you because of its association with a wife. Thanks for making analysis so simple, Ironman 2.

Bechdel Test: Pass

Feminist Grade: D

Overall Movie Grade: B

Yes, it's possible to like a movie and still deplore its messaging on women. Be aware of what you're watching.

[EDIT: Also posted at Feminist Review!]

Closing the Title IX Loophole

2010-04-30T08:02:00.000-07:00

Last week, the Obama administration announced that the Department of Education will close an enforcement loophole to the law known as Title IX. The 2005 loophole allowed schools to use surveys to gague female students' interest in sports, and interpreted a lack of response as a lack of interest.

Passed in 1972, Title IX forbids any schools that receive federal funding from discriminating against anyone based on gender. Title IX is best known for its impact on collegiate athletics, basically mandating that women have the same access to varsity athletics that men do, based on enrollment. To comply, many schools reappropriated funding from their plethora of men's teams to offer more opportunities for women.

Some men don't like this. It means that they don't have as many opportunities as they had before. They don't have the vast majority of funding anymore (assuming Title IX is even enforced at their school). Maybe, like a classmate of mine at ASU once lamented, they cut the men's gymnastics team to create a women's rowing program. He had to look that much harder to find a funded, men's gymnastics program. He had to compete for fewer spots on fewer teams. He even had to be truly exceptional to participate, or receive a scholarship. I guess now he knows how millions of women, myself included, felt when they were looking for college athletic programs.

Women's athletic opportunities is an issue near and dear to our hearts. KB, Liz and Smalls became fast friends while competing in high school club rowing in Arizona, and all three participated in Division I athletics in college. None of this would have been possible without Title IX.

I'd also like to point out that, although we have legal protection from discrimination in schools, Title IX enforcement is an entirely different issue. The 2005 loophole patently allowed non-compliance, essentially blaming women for their own lack of opportunity and funding. My favorite Title IX enforcement story is that of the Yale women's rowing team, whose members had to wait in a freezing bus after practice while the men's crew showered and dressed in off-campus locker rooms. Title IX had been passed four years earlier. The crew, led by future olympian Cris Ernst and accompanied by a New York Times reporter, stormed the athletic director's office and stripped. They had written Title IX on their bare chests and backs.

You can learn more about that incident in the documentary A Hero For Daisy.

That story makes me want to do 50 push-ups.

Glee: An Exercise in Pop Culture Feminism

2010-04-23T08:51:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen a primetime show reference the gender wage gap?

If you hadn't joined the Glee bandwagon already, Tuesday's Madonna-themed episode is a good place to start. This feel-good musical comedy about high-school outcasts is a joy to watch anyway, but its more subversive political themes make it all the more interesting. Glee features one of the first coming-out plots for a teenage character in primetime and frequently checks itself for tokenism of the aforementioned gay character and its black female vocal powerhouse. In Tuesday's episode, the girls stick up for themselves sexually and otherwise, and the boys end up learning a lesson in empathy while considering ideas like "for a boy to look like a girl is degrading/Because you think being a girl is degrading."

This episode doesn't portray a feminist utopia. Trust me, I could find plenty wrong in an analysis. But all told, this is the most feminist piece of media I've ever seen in primetime, and it's damn entertaining.

See The Power of Madonna episode of Glee on Hulu as soon as is humanly possible.

The Case for Global Feminism

2010-04-20T08:02:00.001-07:00

If ever you wonder why global feminism has emerged as one of the defining characteristics of modern feminism, the proof is in the morning paper.

No Time to Say: Hello, Goodbye

2010-04-08T07:54:00.000-07:00

Hello all you feminazis. I wanted to post a brief excuse as to why our contributing ladybrains have been silent for the past week or two. Smalls, Liz and KB have all been juggling graduate school applications and trips. So bear with us. Although sexism never rests, we ladybrains must. That is, in between working full-time and trying to keep up a blog analyzing the exhausting hegemony of sexism in politics and popular culture.

The Review Revue

2010-03-26T07:44:00.001-07:00

The film and media review website Pajiba is a favorite among we ladybrains. The site's tagline says it all: Scathing Reviews for Bitchy People. What's not to love? Their reviews are required weekly reading: well-written, punchy and usually quote-worthy. Remember the Twilight review? As it turns out, vampires don't explode in sunlight, they turn into Ziggy Motherf*cking Stardust.

But Pajiba's Monday review of The Runaways was stuffed to the gills with gross, demeaning descriptions of the women onscreen, replete with and bitch-and-whore bombs, almost unreadable past author Brian Prisco's gendered insults. He argues that the film could have, and should have, treated the band members of The Runaways more seriously in the context of women in rock, a good and fair point. But I can barely distill that above the liberal use of words and descriptions that are so hatefully loaded for women.

It's not a coincidence that Prisco also authored the only other Pajiba review that has ever inspired similar ire with we me. In last year's review of Sin Nombre, Prisco writes that a gang leader attempts to rape the film's protagonist because he finds her "alluring." Ah, the rape as a compliment canard. For anyone who hasn't seen the film, in this scene the gang leader is trying to assert his authority on a train packed with terrified immigrants. His attempted rape is a power play. The main character is a pretty girl, but her allure had nothing to do with the attempted assault. The fact that the same gang leader attempts to rape another girl earlier in the film, also to assert his authority over another gang member, makes this statement even more bizarre and incorrect.

Ugly women get raped. Fat women get raped. Old women get raped. Frumpy women get raped. Disabled women get raped. Any woman who isn't considered traditionally beautiful in the very, very narrow American standard--they get raped, too. So do men of all descriptions. And it's not because they flirted or dressed slutty or drank. It's because some dudes didn't treat them like humans.

The Equality Myth

2010-03-24T08:50:00.000-07:00

This Newsweek story about women journalists filing a class-action lawsuit against, yes, Newsweek, for gender discrimination has enthralled this ladybrain all morning. They hooked me by featuring an amazing picture of the women's lawyer--D.C.'s own Eleanor Holmes Norton.

In the feature, three young Newsweek writers explore what has changed for women in the workplace since 1970, and what has stayed the same. They do a great job capturing the subtlety of sexism in the workplace--suffocated by legal ramifications, the sexism we deal with is more insidious and harder to punish.

The authors have set up their own blog. I'm especially interested to read an essay from one of the authors about her parents' "failed experiment in gender neutrality."

Also, I have no idea why I now receive Newsweek. It started showing up in my mailbox last month, with my married name on it. Thank you mystery magazine-sponsor.

Guess what's on the rise in our "post-feminist" world?

2010-03-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

The slaughter of babies, for being born female. As a note, where's the "pro-life" outrage on this subject? Absent, naturally, because they're actually just all about uterus control.

potency, passivity and the performance of gender

2010-03-15T18:45:00.001-07:00

So I read two really great articles today, from two different locations in the feminist blogosphere.

One was this one, from Elle, at Shakesville, on the ways in which human reproductive processes are gendered. She makes some really excellent points about the ways in which sperm are anthropomorhised, expressed as active and even lionized, while the egg is described as the passive recipient of sperm and a prize to be won; the female reproductive system as a whole is expressed as landscape to be feared but ultimately conquered.

The other was an article by Amanda Hess of Washington City Paper's The Sexist about the dangers of *always* defending "choice" specifically the "choice" of women to "vajazzle" (google it if you must), without considering the wider sexist culture that constrains the choices that women can make without consequences. especially regarding our appearance.

The quote, from Hess' piece, that got me thinking about these two things together was this:

When it comes to personal appearance, it’s no coincidence that femininity is marked by performance, while masculinity is just as often defined by men not performing things. Shaving your body hair is feminine; not shaving is masculine. Plucking, waxing, or bleaching stray facial hairs is feminine; growing a few days of stubble is masculine. Applying makeup is feminine; not painting your face is masculine. Dying, styling, blow-drying, and curling your hair is feminine; keeping a low-maintenance hair cut is masculine.

Funny, that. In most cases, men are portrayed as active and women as passive. Men DO. Women wait, watch, motivate, receive action, etc. The one exception to this is the performance of gender. In this realm, women DO and it is masculine to NOT DO.

My thought on it is that it goes something like this: women, "the fairer sex" are bombarded by the images associated with their ideal form as perceived by the makers of messages and images: men. So they achieve that ideal form by any means necessary because of the rewards that can come with compliance with the ideals, fleeting though they may be. As Hess points out, there are punishments for women who don't conform and perform. Social construction has taken things that are human (like having eyebrows and under arm hair) and made them masculine. So in order to perform her "natural" gender, a women must alter her natural state.

In this way we're at a point where (mostly, there are exceptions in the particulars) women are the ones who must perform their gender in time consuming rituals. Women perform gender, while men just HAVE it, by virtue of being the default human (except trans men, in the cultural reasoning at large-- trans men must perform masculinity, regardless of what the trans men themselves may think. And I'd love to hear that, since I lack the perspective to deal with that issue in any complete or compelling way).

This is all part of the idea that masculinity is defined in hierarchical contradistinction to femininity, and the problems that causes.

Just musing.

ill doctrine

2010-03-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

Jay Smooth, who is rad, has a great video up about racism in pop culture and how -- while it's interesting and can be an enlightening discussion to have -- it distracts us from looking at the broader, more structural and systemic race issues. Incidentally, I think some of his points carry quite nicely to sexism. Check it out.

F_ck Sh_t Stack

2010-03-15T11:30:00.000-07:00

Reggie Watts: Innovative, freethinking, funny, and so musically talented I can barely stand it. In possibly the coolest video of 2010, if not the next decade, Watts effortlessly dismisses all the bullshit deeply entrenched in popular music. Numerous issues surrender to his smooth flow, but the most satisfying is his slam on the objectivity of women.

LOOSEWORLD x Waverly Films: Reggie Watts in F_CK SH_T STACK from LOOSEWORLD on Vimeo.

Reggie Watts will be opening for Conan O'Brien's Legally Prohibited from Being Funny on Television Tour, starting this April.

and K-big's movie didn't even follow THE FORMULA

2010-03-11T07:47:00.000-08:00

The formula as stated in this trailer, that is.

Kathryn Bigelow Takes Top Honors at the Oscars

2010-03-09T05:55:00.000-08:00

By Jove, she's done it! Sunday night, Kathryn Bigelow became the first woman to win an Oscar for Best Director. The film for which she earned the honor, The Hurt Locker, also took home the award for Best Picture, restoring this ladybrain's faith in the film industry (besting alternately mediocre and just plain awful films like Avatar and A Serious Man).

Watch her acceptance speech here, and see more analysis from our go-to hollywood blog.

A Serious Man: A Ladybrain Review

2010-03-08T12:57:00.000-08:00

When this ladybrain first attempted, under duress, to catch A Serious Man at the local indie theater, she narrowly escaped seeing the wrong film, the similarly titled A Single Man. This mixup--which tragically ended with a viewing of the God-awful Flags of Our Fathers at the AFI--is telling, in that the new Cohen brothers film A Serious Man is yet another completely forgettable film about a white guy who hates his life in the suburbs.

The poor guy. He's up for tenure at his university. He's got a stay-at-home wife, of whose state of mind he is so oblivious he has no idea she's involved with another man and preparing to divorce him. His kids are assholes who walk all over him, because he lets them. His rabbis are alternately dismissive or moon-faced. His lawyers are expensive. His brother is a loaf. His name is Larry.

A Serious Man opens with a puzzling vignette that takes place in an Eastern European shtetl, telling a several-minute tale in Yiddish about a married couple who may or may not have come across a dybbuk, or a possessed corpse. This boring Cohen-brothers-fabricated folktale has admittedly nothing to do with the rest of the film, and yet it is the first thing the audience has to sit through.

Thus, after the atmosphere of ennui is sufficiently set, we enter a Midwest suburb to see just how suck-tackular life is for Larry in the suburbs, and how much worse it can progressively get. Larry endures and endures without managing to learn anything or prove himself along the way, and then receives some more bad news before a ridiculous and abrupt in medias res ending. For this ladybrain, the ending made the film even more infuriatingly bad. Thus, audiences spend the entire film in frustration.

And Larry's life is frustrating, it's hard not to pity the guy. But what is more frustrating than his family, friends, colleagues and congregation is the fact that Larry is a lilly-livered worm of a human. He takes it all lying down. He does nothing to help himself.

Some have said this story is supposed to be a modern-day parallel to Job. By that comparison Larry's plights are even more eye-roll inducing. Does anyone remember what happened to Job? His entire family was murdered. He had painful boils. He didn't have a neighbor who conveniently sunbathed naked.

If it wasn't clear already, women don't play a particularly positive role in Larry's life. In fact, they're right at the front of the pack making Larry miserable. His wife Judith is a cheater and a manipulator, who steam rolls and intimidates Larry with condescension and taunting. His daughter Sarah is a vapid ingrate and a thief, whose only joys in life are washing her hair and saving up for a nose job. The only women who don't lead to Larry's downfall either encourage him to seek advice from ultimately counter-productive rabbis or get him stoned and provide naked-fantasy-material.

But ultimately, his family and friends can't be held responsible for Larry's fate. If he'd grow a backbone, maybe we'd care more about his trials and tribulations. If only this film had a fraction of the insight or humor of other Cohen brothers films, which are some of this ladybrain's favorite films of all time.

Feminist grade: F

The few women who are in this film are by turns malicious, vapid, selfish or just fodder for sex dreams. Since this movie is all about Larry, it fails the Bechdel test.

Moviegoer grade: D-

That this film was among the 10 nominees for Best Picture is a complete joke.

The Hurt Locker: A Ladybrain Review

2010-03-05T18:25:00.000-08:00

"War is a drug."--Chris Hedges, journalist and war correspondent

And so aptly begins one of the most talked about movies of the season, The Hurt Locker, directed by filmmaker Kathryn Bigelow. This film has generally been accepted by the public as “the kickass war movie directed by a woman” but to any Ladybrain, such glib assessments are markedly deficient. In truth, the movie is not about war at all. It’s a complex and cavernous character study of men facing oblivion.

Set around 2004, Sgt. 1st Class William James (Jeremy Renner) assumes responsibility as bomb disposal specialist in Iraq with Sgt. J.T. Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Spc. Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty) comprising the rest of Bravo Company, which is currently stationed in Baghdad with 39 days left of deployment. It’s a slow and agonizing countdown of days as these three men of contrasting mentalities are all too aware that they must work together or die. Sandborn is as precise as the playbook he follows; believing his only chance of survival is to follow the rules. Eldridge is young, panicky, and ashamed of his own fear. But their new team leader James plunges headfirst into his bomb disposal duties with a cool and efficient intensity that alarms the rest of his unit. They don’t know that James is an artist, a genius, a connoisseur with eyes only for his craft. As the movie develops, it becomes apparent that, for the same reason the painter paints or the writer writes, James reaps an intangible fulfillment with each explosive he deactivates, sometimes at the expense and safety of his team. And so, the spellbinding heart of The Hurt Locker lies not in the explosiveness of war, but in the precise unraveling of these men as they exist in terrible danger; the exposure of human nature.

Now, that’s not to say that this film isn’t kickass (a technical term). The Hurt Locker is expertly executed, with exceptional combat sequences and explosions. Indeed, watching the pebbles fly during a super slow motion explosion makes this Ladybrain’s hair stand up on end, even on repeated viewings. Jeremy Renner is completely deserving of his Best Actor recognition as he expressly and seemingly effortlessly conveys an indefinable character. The steady and genuine pacing creates actual suspense that is a real treat compared to the hysterical exaggeration, false alarms, and trickery of recent cinema. The photography is stylistic and yet hyperrealistic, and coupled with the intimate portraits of the characters, involves the audience as if they, too, are in terrible danger as the fourth member of the U.S. Army’s Explosive Ordinance Disposal Unit. Ultimately, The Hurt Locker is a profound and beautiful film, well beyond a simple exercise in craft by reaching new heights of cinema and human expression.

And it was directed by a woman, Kathryn Bigelow. Bigelow recently became the first woman to win Best Director in the Director’s Guild of America Awards earlier this year, and she could be the first woman to win Best Director at the Academy Awards in two days. There have only been three previous women nominated for Best Director in the history of the Academy: Lina Wertmuller for 1976's Seven Beauties, Jane Campion for 1993's The Piano, and Sofia Coppola for 2003's Lost In Translation. But just because a film is directed by a woman, does that mean it is inherently feminist? This Ladybrain thinks not. The Hurt Locker fails the Bechdel Test, as it is specifically about the human nature of three men. The only woman in the film (besides screaming bystanders) is James’s wife, who he resents for supposedly shackling him into a life of fatherhood and domesticity. Somehow this Ladybrain doesn’t think it was all his wife's fault.

But is it because there was a woman at the helm that this film, that it surpasses many others in the exploration of the human condition? Would a male filmmaker take the same material and inadvertently generate a more “kickass” rendition of The Hurt Locker with less of the complexity of humanity and more of the violence and war? While interesting to think about, these questions are generally unanswerable. Defining a filmmaking style by the filmmaker’s gender is a decades-old prejudice that is the reason why there are not so many prominent female directors out there today. It’s simply thus: Bigelow has made great strides for female artists out there, and certainly not in the “women can make war movies, too” sort of way. But rather, would The Hurt Locker have the severe impact it does without the direction of dedicated artist Kathryn Bigelow?

Absolutely not.

Kathryn Bigelow for Best Director at the 2010 Academy Awards!

Feminist grade: C

It fails the Bechdel test but is a huge boon for female filmmakers.

Moviegoer grade: A

An excellent example of the artistry of cinema.

Up in the Air: A Ladybrain Review

2010-03-05T11:18:00.000-08:00

One of the risks of doubling the number of films in the Best Picture category is that some of the 10 films, at least in this year's crop, start to seem mighty familiar.

Such is the case, as alluded to in previous reviews, with Jason Reitman's Up in the Air. Based on books set decades apart, it's unfortunate that two films up for the Best Picture Oscar in the same year are so similar. Without giving too much away, try not to see this film and An Education in the same weekend.

Up in the Air follows the story of corporate axe man Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), who travels over 300 days a year to do the dirty work in company layoffs. A whiz at his job, Bingham revels in the distance his lifestyle gives him from relationships. So entrenched is he in his at-an-arms-length way of life, Bingham even gives motivational talks encouraging people not to weigh themselves down with people and possessions. But his streamlined swagger stalls when two women enter his life: fellow frequent flyer Alex (Vera Farmiga) and enthusiastic young coworker Natalie (Anna Kendrick).

When his boss assigns Ryan to bring ambitious but uptight Natalie along on his next round of firings to learn the ropes, she soon finds out she has little experience to back up her industry-changing ideas, specifically video-conference firing. While Natalie starts to learn about the personal, ugly side of the business, Ryan starts to question his aversion to settling down as he falls hard for his fellow road junkie Alex.

Thus, Reitman sets the stage for an often frustrating front-row seat into one travelling man's mid-life crisis. What is he running from on the road? Why is he estranged from his family? The problem with these questions is that Ryan as a character is that, until the very end, there's not much about him that is redeeming. He's got a smarmy way about him that allows him to be very successful at firing people, and apparently loses no sleep at night over it. We're supposed to think his travelling-man quirks, like racial profiling, are cute peccadilloes, but instead they come off as yet more chips on some repressed white guy's shoulder. Oh, how sad that this man who makes a living firing people is a commitment-phobe. He creates his own issues and isolates himself. He lives out of a carry-on, and then he's surprised when the women he's involved with move on, or when they don't see him as settling-down material, or when his siblings resent him. For much of the film, Ryan's character is one that the audience isn't necessarily sympathetic with. He's a professional smarm who avoids commitment and responsibility. His lonely life is a chosen one, so what's to pity?

The only thing that really redeems Ryan's character is his relationship with his young co-worker, Natalie. Although he first views her as a dangerous innovator that threatens to disrupt his free-flying lifestyle, the two serve as catalysts in each other's lives, each mentoring the other to important next steps professionally and personally.

But given that Ryan is such a lukewarm character, it's remarkable how Up in the Air keeps the audience caring. Much of the credit for that should go to the actors, who pulled out amazing performances, especially relative newcomer Kendrick, who up until now has been relegated to roles like the catty friend in the Twilight films.

Now let's look at the feminist issues at play here. Up in the Air does pass the Bechdel test, but not with flying colors. The two main female characters, Alex and Natalie, independent career women though they may be, still serve only as catalysts in the overall experience of Ryan, and have very little contact with each other, and nearly none that doesn't directly involve Ryan and talk of the perfect man.

Natalie's plot path follows some of the familiar themes of reining in assertive women and putting them in their place (see Taming of the Shrew or any number of John Hughes films). In this theme, uptight women need to be humiliated and taken down a peg so they can let loose, which is what they want to do anyway. As a highly-educated newcomer with innovative ideas about how to streamline layoffs with digital options, Natalie makes a huge splash at Ryan's office, but he soon teaches her that there's more to the industry than theory. When Natalie can't stomach the dark nature of the job, unable to remove herself emotionally, she quits. These are typical assumptions about women and work--they're too emotional or weak to do certain things. This would seem especially troubling, except for the fact that Natalie never wanted to do this job. She followed her boyfriend to Omaha and took a job that she was overqualified for and uninterested in, and she regrets the decision. But she's talented and ambitious enough to get out of Omaha and on to bigger things once she faces the truth about her job and her relationship.

But Natalie's career path could have easily mirrored Ryan's and even Alex's. In Alex's case, she's even found a way to feed her love for travelling and also have a strong sense of home, much as the oblivious Ryan finds that inconceivable because of his own personal failures. Although she breaks Ryan's heart, Alex also shows him what is possible--to have your cake and eat it, too. And although some, like this ladybrain, would take moral issue with her approach to on-the-road relationships, this film doesn't demonize her for her sexual decisions.

Feminist grade: C-

It barely passes the Bechdel test but does promote women's career independence.

Moviegoer grade: C

This has been the most boring review to write of the Oscar season, and we haven't even gotten to A Serious Man.

Up: A Ladybrain Review

2010-03-02T11:54:00.000-08:00

Pixar's 10th feature film had big shoes to fill, released in the wake of films like WALL-E, The Incredibles and Finding Nemo.

But Pixar delivered another home run with their newest installment, Up, which tells the story of Carl Fredricksen, a widower who dreamed of exploring South America with his wife, Ellie. After her death, Carl becomes a loner curmudgeon who resents the rampant development of his community, earning the ire of greedy developers who want his property. When a scuffle with a construction worker turns accidentally violent, a judge orders Carl to relocate to a retirement home. Defying the order, retired balloon-seller Carl attaches thousands of helium balloons to his house and takes off, due south to fulfill his and Ellie's dream of living in Paradise Falls, South America.

But Carl's escape and repose is soon interrupted. Little did he know that overzealous Wilderness Explorer Russell was trapped on Carl's porch during takeoff--tethering the boy's fate to Carl's adventure. A series of fantastical, hilarious and heartwarming escapades through the beautiful landscape of South America's tepuis makes for a unique and amazing story of grief, redemption and talking dogs.

Pixar always walks the line so gracefully between a film that kids will enjoy and adults will appreciate. The humor and themes in Up are no exception. This ladybrain can't predict what kids will love about this film, but it's easy to see what adults like. It's funny. It's interesting. It's beautifully animated with eye-popping scenery. And it deals with and comments on important themes.

Agism plays a huge role in the plot, exposing the unfortunate reality that the elderly in America are often thrown aside to make progress and money-grubbing more convenient. The mutually enriching friendship that Carl and Russell develop is a great example of what young people and old people can give and show one another. For Carl, Russell is a friend who can share in adventures and show Carl that his life isn't over yet. For Russell, Carl is a father figure, a mentor and a companion for an awkward boy who shares the same appreciation for exploring.

And guess what? Russell is Asian, and this ladybrain could find no bizarre or offensive suggestions regarding his ethnicity. Well, that's refreshing.

Although Up fails the Bechdel test, there are a few feminist issues that Carl's wife Ellie introduces. She is a mouthy tomboy who endears herself to Carl through her kindness and sense of adventure. When they're older, she has a career as a zookeeper. When she and Carl discover they can't have kids, they're both sad, but they move on and have a very happy life together. For the few minutes that Ellie is onscreen, she makes a moving impression, and her presence is felt throughout the film in her influence on Carl, and his overwhelming grief at losing her.

Up is a lot of fun to watch, remember and quote. More than one talking dog quote has found its way in to this ladybrain's go-to icebreakers, along with "You can call me Nanerpuss, Nanerpuss!" or "And I want my scalps."

Feminist grade: C

It fails the Bechdel test but the character Ellie is a profound and positive influence throughout the film, even if it's mostly in spirit.

Moviegoer grade: A

One of this ladybrain's favorite films of the year, a total joy to watch.

Inglourious Basterds: A Ladybrain Review

2010-03-01T11:56:00.000-08:00

Quentin Tarantino considers his latest film, the obnoxiously misspelled Inglourious Basterds, the "best thing he's ever written." That's saying a lot, when one considers Tarantino's kick-ass filmography, especially since he is known most for not just stories but dialogue. There's nothing that annoys this ladybrain more than mindless hero-worship and name dropping, so don't get the wrong impression. In fact, this ladybrain wasn't keen to see Inglourious Basterds on this basic premise: Tarantino has become exponentially more popular in the past few years, and thus must have also become exponentially less interesting (this ladybrain's love for Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs and Kill Bill notwithstanding). Having skipped over Death Proof amid poor reviews, this misspelled magnum opus thus was reviewed by skeptical lady-eyes.

Inglourious Basterds follows a French Jew, Shoshanna Dreyfus (Melanie Laurent) and a Jewish-American militia headed by Lt. Aldo "and I want my scalps" Raine (Brad Pitt) in an alternate history of World War II, emphasis on alternate. The militia, who call themselves the Basterds, go behind enemy lines in France to kill, torture and intimidate Nazis. They intersect with Shoshanna in 1944 Paris, where she owns a cinema and is passing as a Gentile named Emmanuelle. Much to her chagrin, a Nazi posterchild takes a liking to her. But after he arranges for a propaganda film to premiere at her cinema, Shoshanna sees a perfect opportunity for revenge against the Nazis for murdering her family.

While it may not have the staying power of other Tarantino classics, this is a very interesting film, and not just because of the cathartic Nazi slayings (including Hitler himself). Tarantino finds a way to make the sometimes painfully familiar Holocaust story line enthralling, especially by capturing the paranoia and paralyzing fear that a fair-haired, blue-eyed Jewish woman endures every day by living in Nazi-occupied Paris. Tarantino allows the stress and tension of those scenes, the most memorable of which involve Col. Hans "the Jew hunter" Landa (Christoph Waltz), to build far beyond the threshold audiences are used to. But the fact that he can enthrall and ellicit this kind of gut reaction shows what an amazing filmmaker he is.

And, to his credit, Tarantino pays homage to these French and German story lines by avoiding the trademark American arrogance of assuming any foreign characters would speak English in their foreign homes, albeit with a slight accent. In this film, American characters speak English, and their ignorance of other tongues is chastized and then made an ongoing joke. The Europeans speak English only either to Americans, or in the chilling opening scene, to speak plainly without being understood by others.

The colors, landscapes, costumes and music are tremendous. The acting is impeccable, with the notable exception of basically all the Basterds except Pitt (who is more of a caricature here) and a truly ridiculous and embarrassing cameo by Mike Myers. The inexplicable casting of every out of his league character-actor-who-has-ever-played-a-geek as a Basterd, including a guy from Freaks and Geeks and Ryan from The Office, as well as Tarantino's buddy and a proud forefather of the torture porn genre, Eli Roth. Really, for a film named after this motley crew, it was surprising how anonymous most of the Basterds were, other than being a group of non-athletic looking skinny dudes who can inexplicably kick every Nazi troop's asses. Other than their dear leader and Roth's Sgt. Donny Donowitz who, try not to laugh out loud, is feared above no one else as the mighty, strong, ruthless "Bear Jew." BOO! Roth is admittedly a woman-hating scuz bucket and his black eyes are super creepy but he's not exactly Goliath. He's super scary when you contemplate what his work says about women. But anyone can hit Nazis with a bat. Come on.

Whenever the Americans aren't onscreen distracting us from the more interesting plotlines about Shoshanna and German double-agent Bridget von Hammersmark (Diane Kruger), we get to see some truly remarkable performances by Waltz as a disturbingly effective and calm Nazi enforcer, Laurent as a strong and resilient survivor and from Kruger as a German actress feeding information to the allies.

All the same, the depiction of these leading ladies is still somewhat fraught. The film manages to abysmally fail the Bechdel test even though it features two clever, charming young women. How can that be? Well, judging from Tarantino's other films, he tends to write female characters who surround themselves exclusively with men--they're sufficiently socially deviant that they apparently can't relate to any female friends or family members. Think of the Uma Thurman characters alone. Kill Bill's The Bride and Pulp Fiction's Mia Wallace are both loners. They're wives and mothers but still deviants--one is an assassin, the other a cokehead.

Similarly, Shoshanna and Bridget are both very beautiful, commanding women, who aren't attached to a husband or father, but at the same are surrounded by men in their social and professional lives. Shoshanna inherits a cinema from an offscreen "aunt" and runs it independently with her employee and lover Marcel. Other than Marcel, Shoshanna only interacts only with Nazi soldiers (not by choice), and she seems completely at ease as a professional, if not as a Jew in hiding. She is stylish and acerbic, qualities that charm her Nazi admirer until he is tired of being rebuffed. But even when threatened, Shoshanna uses her cunning to gain the advantage and protect herself, although a hint of sympathy afterward spells her doom.

The beautiful and lively Bridget uses her fame and acting skills to help the Allies get closer to Hitler and top Nazi officials, but the same charm that makes her double-agent life possible also puts her under a cloud of suspicion to the Basterds and Germans alike. A mark of her fame and her feminine wardrobe are what lead Landa to suspect Bridget, and when he confronts her, he punishes her with vigor and gendered insults that he wouldn't bestow upon a male double-agent.

All told, Inglourious Basterds is an interesting flick, and worth seeing, but it surely won't hold up to Tarantino's older, better films.

Feminist grade: D

It fails the Bechdel test, and punishes its leading ladies for their sympathy and cunning, respectively.

Moviegoer grade: C+

The parts that focus on French and German characters are head and shoulders better than the distractingly bad American Basterds scenes. There are some cool elements at play here, but ultimately it's a notch below Best Picture quality.

If a dude team did this, think it would be a big deal?

2010-02-26T08:06:00.001-08:00

The Canadian women's hockey team won Olympic Gold! They're pumped about it!

They celebrated by drinking some beer and champagne and smoking some cigars on the ice, after the stadium emptied. Some people are freaking out and writing newspaper stories about it. The AP wrote a story about it, and, I think, brought it to the attention of the IOC, who are "looking into the matter."

Also, there's some femininity-policing in there. They were "guzzling" beer, and doing TOTES GAY things like pouring champagne in to each other's mouths.

My contention is that if a men's team did this: no story. Or a "boys will be boys, they earned their celebration, look how happy they are..." type story. Dudes acting "like dudes"? A-OK. Women acting "like dudes"? Fucking shameful. I mean, it's bad enough that they play hockey, amirite?

I must say, though. There was one kind of funny moment in the story, which was this:

"Steve Keough, a spokesman for the Canadian Olympic Committee, said the COC had not provided the alcohol nor initiated the party.

"In terms of the actual celebration, it's not exactly something uncommon in Canada," he said.

An Education: A Ladybrain Review

2010-02-24T10:23:00.000-08:00

What's better: Galavanting around posh London and Paris or studying Jane Eyre in preparation for college?

This is the awfully complicated dilemma that protagonist Jenny Miller (Carey Mulligan) faces in An Education. In suburban London in 1961, old soul Jenny is a shoo-in at Oxford if she keeps up her studies at their current clip. But who should arrive to distract her but the older University of Life graduate David Goldman (Peter Sarsgaard). He minored in being a totally amoral.

And although David's revelry and riches charm both Jenny and her parents, Jenny does see hints of the darker side of his facade, but still ends up making choices that should frustrate 21st century women who have any inkling of what financial and educational independence can mean for women.

Critics have been abuzz about An Education since its debut at Sundance last year, especially regarding the work of two women: director Lone Sherfig and star Mulligan, and rightly so. The look and feel of the film is magnetically retro, and the camera work gracefully augments Jenny's whirlwind emotions, swept off her feet in a beautiful Paris montage one minute and wallowing in a dark, crushing reality the next.

Mulligan's work has garnered overwhelming praise, culminating in her Oscar nomination for Best Actress. Mulligan is undeniably charming, vulnerable and tenacious, a solid lead in a solid role. Her co-star Rosamund Pike, though, deserves equal praise for her role as a spacy but well-meaning friend of David's, a perfectly played foil for witty Jenny. A supporting cast including Emma Thompson, Olivia Williams and Alfred Molina round out the film with solid and earnest performances as people who want what's best for Jenny, although they disagree on what is best.

The only dud in the cast is Sarsgaard, who inexplicably manages to be stunningly handsome and also thoroughly revolting. Something about his con-man smile is so unnerving, but in that way he's terrifically well cast as Jenny's older beau. The problem? His laughable English accent alternates between distracting and ridiculous. It seriously begs the question: If Sarsgaard was completely irreplaceable in this part, why not just write him in as an American and save audiences the grief of a truly Natalie Portman-level bad accent.

Although the film as a whole was a little underwhelming, given all the hype, and although the plot will seem mighty familiar to anyone who has seen Up in the Air (substitute a young girl coming of age for a middle-aged man in a mid-life crisis), it's a very sharp-looking, mostly wonderfully performed film. And from a feminist standpoint, it's very satisfying. A talented young woman redeems herself with the help of another talented, educated woman. What's not to appreciate about that? Sure, it's frustrating that Jenny makes some fleeting decisions earlier on, but we 21st century ladybrains must realize that 2010 and 1961 are worlds away, and thank goodness for that.

Feminist grade: A

It passes the Bechdel test with flying colors, features several strong women characters and a female protagonist, was directed by a woman and is based on a memoir by Lynn Barber.

Moviegoer grade: B-

A solid film that might not live up to the hype.

District 9: A Ladybrain Review

2010-02-22T13:14:00.000-08:00

In the months before District 9 was released, movie-goers puzzled over signs indicating certain restrooms and theaters were restricted to human use only. This sort of grassroots publicity earned attention that turned into feverish word of mouth once the film was released late last summer amid solid box office performance and overwhelmingly positive reviews.

District 9 enjoyed such success because it is unlike any film audiences have ever seen. Although it made headlines for Peter Jackson's involvement in the special effects, this film stands on its own, as a commentary on apartheid and a damn good story.

Born from Neil Bloomkamp's short film Alive in Joburg, District 9 takes us back to 1982 Johannesburg, South Africa, where an alien ship hovers over the city, unable to move, presumably because of a part that went missing when they arrived on Earth. After offloading the sick and leaderless aliens--who look like large, creepy grasshoppers--the government hires a private military organization, Multinational United or MNU, to manage the refugees into camps, which quickly become slums.

As South Africa's human residents become more disgusted and afraid of the aliens, which they derogatorily call "prawns," they begin the process of a forced evacuation to move the residents of District 9 farther away from the humans, to District 10. Enter Wikus van der Mewe, a bumbling MNU employee who is in charge of serving the aliens their eviction notices. His venture into District 9 reveals the horrific conditions in which the aliens live, and how cruelly and violently they are treated by the MNU. Wikus, upon entering an alien's home, accidentally finds and sprays an alien fluid in his face, which causes a chain reaction that forces Wikus to empathize with and help the aliens that the humans so despise.

To tell this gritty story, Bloomkamp expertly melds documentary-style camerawork with alien and spaceship special effects, creating a much more realistic and gritty look than anything Avatar could have hoped to accomplish. After seeing Avatar, you would never turn a corner and expect to see a big blue Na'vi, but District 9 makes you forget that these creatures don't actually exist on Earth.

Adding to this on-the-ground style is the excellent, but relatively unknown, South African cast, whose performances within the narrative are edited in with documentary-style interviews with historians, experts and MNU employees, all telling the story of this alternate-history looking back at the events, evidence and rumors.

Some will compare this film to Avatar not just because of special effects and aliens, but also as an example of a white savior theme, but this ladybrain disagrees. The first difference between a film like Avatar (which, in turn, shares themes with countless other native-white-savior-stories) and District 9 is, first, that the aliens aren't the native peoples in this narrative, they're very literally alien on Earth, and they crashed our party, so to speak. But the aliens do represent black South Africans, and in that respect they do take the role of the native people of South Africa, standing up against the white Europeans who colonized the country. And although Wikus does play a white savior role to the aliens, as Annalee Newitz points out, it's not out of the goodness of his heart. He has a selfish reason. In that way, he's much more of an anti-hero than Avatar's Sully and the like.

And in the end, the alien dubbed Christopher Johnson and his son play just as much a role as saviors as Wikus, moreso if the saved are the aliens. And although Wikus does save Johnson from the MNU, ultimately his fellow aliens then save Wikus from a particularly nasty MNU mercenary. In many ways, they are their own saviors, since Wikus' arrival in District 9 created the problem of the missing powerful fluid, which Wikus then had to fix. If you take Wikus out of the equation, the aliens wouldn't have needed saving at all. Thus, he's they're homme fatale (French for man, yes?) in one sense and their rectifier in another.

The only completely indefensible race issue in District 9, though, is the matter of the bizarre, vicious gang that lives among the aliens, identified as Nigerians. Identifying these evil-doers as specifically Nigerian especially given the considerable geographic distance between South Africa and Nigeria, made this ladybrain wonder if there were racial conflicts between the two countries that most Americans weren't aware of. Rightly so, Nigerians were offended by the depiction and attempted to ban the film (not rightly so, according to this ladybrain's standards regarding censorship).

The bottom line: This is a really cool film, with a lot of historical allusions, interesting themes, action and heart. It's films like this that benefit most from the expanded number of Best Picture nominees, and it wouldn't dissapoint this ladybrain one bit if it took home the big honor.

Feminist grade: C

It fails the Bechdel test and features only one significant female character, Wikus' wife Tania, although the featured experts that are shown in interview format are a mix of men and women. But we give District 9 a C because it was co-written by a woman, Terri Tatchell, who along with Bloomkamp were nominated for Adapted Screenplay Oscar.

Moviegoer grade: A

Hands down, one of the best films of the year. Netflix it immediately.

The Blind Side: A Ladybrain Review

2010-02-18T10:26:00.000-08:00

Movies that don't open in the number one box office slot rarely jump to number one later. --The Blind Side was a sleeper hit, jumping to number one after three weeks against films like Twilight-sequel New Moon. The film's success was especially surprising since it was so fraught with early production woes--reportedly, when Julia Roberts turned down the starring role, Fox wanted to re-write the screenplay as a father-son film. Fox seemingly had no faith in the draw of a film about a white woman and a black teenager, but it clearly resonated with audiences, and garnered two Oscar nominations--Best Picture, and Best Actress for Sandra Bullock's role as a sassy Southerner.

The Blind Side tells the true story of wealthy, white woman Leigh Anne Tuohy (Bullock), who adopts and advocates for a homeless, African-American teenager who attends school with her two children. Admitted to a private Christian school for his athletic potential, Michael Oher (Quintin Aaron) was a stranger and a pariah among his rich, white peers. After years of turnover in the foster care system, Oher catches Tuohy's attention when he walks out of a school event without a coat in freezing temperatures. After agressively asking Oher for information about just how messed up his life is--a mom he can't locate, no home, no weather-appropriate clothing--Tuohy takes it upon herself to house, feed, clothe and eventually adopt Oher. She does this gradually, at first offering up simply a place to sleep and a Thanksgiving meal, working up to getting Oher proper legal papers and a driver's license, before asking Oher how he would feel about making the Tuohys his official, legal guardians.

In the end (and this should be no secret if you have any sense of what a strategically-placed Rob Thomas song means in a trailer) the Tuohys, especially Leigh Anne, change Oher's life by giving him a social and economic leg-up, allowing him to then pursue football (in real life, Oher earned a football scholarship at Ole Miss and now plays for the Baltimore Ravens).

For a based-on-a-true-story sports movie, The Blind Side is surprisingly well-crafted, and the details make all the difference. The film was lucky to have the star-power, humor and talent of Bullock, who is likeable and sincere in her role. She carries the film, especially considering the dearth of speaking lines and very understated performance of her foil and costar Aaron, who comes across as very much a secondary character. In some ways, even though the film is "about" Oher and his unlikely success story, Leigh Anne is the star, to the extent that some have criticized Oher's depiction as little more than a cataylst to showcase one white woman's greatness. It would have been nice for Aaron's character to showcase more personality and less brute strength, but the existing dynamic could be partially a result of Bullock steamrolling everyone else with her acting chops.

Aside from Bullock, there are a few other stand-out performance in the film. Cathy Bates is great, as always, as Oher's tutor, and the supporting roles of the Tuohy kids and Leigh Anne's husband, Sean, are mostly very endearing. The best of the supporting roles, though, is that of Adriane Lenox as Oher's drug-addicted mother. One scene showing Oher's mother and Tuohy talking about motherhood, poverty and addiction is particularly well-executed. Scenes like this set The Blind Side apart from the made-for-TV world to which most true-story films are relegated. The scene showcased considerable writing and acting talent, and injected unexpected sympathy for Oher's mother, rather than judgement about her addiction.

Similarly, a scene where Oher runs across his brother busing a table at a restaurant where Oher just dined with the Tuohys, the realities and effects of poverty are really driven home. This world that Oher is from is one of crime and instability, which in the real-world go hand in hand with poverty and racism. But in the movie world of The Blind Side, the audience doesn't see the reasons why a predominantly black Memphis project would be overrun with crime, drugs and violence. Out here in reality, it's important to realize how racism enters into the poverty equation. And if it's important in reality, it's important in depictions of reality, so audiences should be proactive and pay attention to the racial messages in films like this.

Some have noted more insidious race issues in this film, and rightly so. The film did, at least in passing reference, address the segregated lifestyle the Tuohys had let until they met Oher. It also doesn't ignore the disturbing, racist sexual assumptions implying that young, white women have to be afraid of young black men, whether the implication is one of rape or just "getting in trouble," by getting pregnant. Either way, there's a a feeling of predator and prey in that canard. Several of the Tuohys white friends bring up "the issue" and Leigh Anne has a candid talk with her teenage daughter Collins about it, in which Collins proves herself to be gracious, kind and loving toward her adopted brother, despite the malice of her classmates and her parents' peers.

So, leaving further race analyses to our better-informed peers, let's get down to the feminist nitty-gritty, starting with strong female characters.

Of the supporting roles, there are a few great ones. Cathy Bates is funny and smart as Miss Sue, the tutor who helps boost Oher's grades so he can qualify for NCAAA scholarships. Kim Dickens is great as Mrs. Boswell, a teacher who advocates for Oher among his school's impatient faculty. And Lily Collins, as Leigh Anne's daughter, is a well-placed role for a teenager who has a lot to lose socially, but casts off the shackles of her catty peers to be a good friend, sister and daughter.

On the negative side, the only black, female characters are both somewhat troublesome ones. Although Oher's mother is treated more sensitively than other films might have treated her, she's still a character the audience doesn't fully understand. She's a mother biologically, but she has failed Oher with her addiction and neglect since he was a young child. She apparently lives in the projects that Oher frequented, but hasn't noticed his absence and willingly relinquishes her legal rights to Tuohy. Meanwhile, she also neglects a number of other children and lives alone and in squalor.

The other black, female character is that of an interrogating, somewhat manipulative NCAA official who accuses Oher and the Tuohys of violating NCAA rules by favoring Ole Miss, the Tuohys' alma mater, in Oher's whirlwind football recruitment. She insinuates to Oher that the Tuohys only adopted him to benefit the Ole Miss franchise, and fears that his precedent will lead to more white families adopting large, black youths to do the same. It was interesting that the NCAA character--one that seemingly can pull the plug on Oher's scholarship--was cast as a black woman. Maybe the real official was a black woman--that would be telling to find out. Thus, in this scenerio, a white woman gave him everything he has, and a black woman is trying to take it away. In the end, Oher convinces the NCAA official that he favors Ole Miss because that's where his family went to school, and she doesn't stand in the way.

And obviously, we should end with the big-hitter. Despite the real-life Cinderella story of Oher, the starring role in this film is that of a woman, Leigh Anne. She's mouthy, beautiful, aggressive and maternal. Although she doesn't seem to work much, she is an interior designer, although she's married to a wealthy fast-food franchise owner. She is charitable and smart, and not terribly domestic--her house is so large, she probably employs a housekeeper to clean (though admittedly, that's probably an underpaid woman who isn't white), and her husband jokes to the kids to thank their mom for picking up Thanksgiving dinner to-go. She's knowledgeable about sports, she carries a gun in her purse, and she stands up to gang members, teachers, coaches and scariest of all--cranky government records employees. She sees a kid in need, and she helps him. She is a a white savior to a black kid, I'm not denying that theme and how much it is overplayed in white-guilt-assuaging films. But one thing is undeniable about this story--Leigh Anne Tuohy changed someone's life forever, and it's something that most of us don't have the balls to do.

Feminist grade: B

For all its racial issues, of which bloggers on Ladybrain don't pretend to be experts, this is a film anchored on the character of a strong woman. In feminist analysis, that can't be ignored, just like its race issues can't be ignored.

Moviegoer grade : B

It's lively, sometimes funny, often touching and inspirational. And most people say that like it's a bad thing.

Avatar: A Ladybrain Review

2010-02-16T07:12:00.000-08:00

It’s Oscar season, and what we lady enthusiasts are most concerned about are how women—fictional and actual—are represented among the most-honored films of the year.

Thus begins the first of 10 ladybrained reviews of the Best Picture nominees for the 2010 Academy Awards.

In the months since seeing Avatar, its unholy success has brought one phrase to mind: irrational exuberance.

What you’ve heard about the story is true. Avatar is a poorly written, predictable rehashing of typical narratives about white men adopting the ways of Native Americans. More well-informed bloggers have written about the film's racist messaging, which makes for interesting (and infuriating) reading. There's plenty to say. Ah, but if one brings up the film’s considerable weaknesses, it’s a near-certainty that someone will then bring up visuals.

That no one can talk about this movie without mentioning the special effects is telling. There’s a reason that six out of nine of the film’s Oscar nominations are in the technical categories. The reason that Avatar earned zero acting or writing nods is that the acting and writing sucks.

Sam Worthington plays Jake Sully, a parapalegic former (U.S.?) marine who takes an experimental job on planet Pandora, replacing his dead brother. Turns out, the experimental program involves virtual-reality-type living through spare bodies called avatars. The avatars are modeled after a native species of Pandora, the Na’vi, tall humanoid-types who have cat-like faces, blue bodies, dreads and tails that can connect to animals and plants. Wheelchair-bound Sully likes hanging out in his avatar because it allows him use of legs again. But meeting the intriguing Na’vi woman Neytiri doesn’t hurt either. After Sully’s avatar stumbles upon the Na’vi and discovers that their nature goddess Eywa has taken a liking to him, the Pandora security force (think Blackwater with an even worse track record) assigns Sully to ingratiate himself with the Na’vi, halfheartedly hoping for a diplomatic solution to pillaging Pandora for the valuable metal that rests underneath the Na’vi’s sacred forest. The metal’s name? Unobtanium. My partner assures me that was some intentional geek joke, but alas, I’m not in on the knee-slapping.

And wouldn’t ya know? John Smith, I mean, John J. Dunbar, I mean Lewis Gates, I mean Sully proves himself a real native-natural. He learns that the Na’vi brand of environmentalism is something to respect. He falls in love with Neytiri. When the Blackwater-esque force inevitably gives up on diplomacy and charges Pandora with tanks and bombs, Neytiri realizes that Sully has known about the pillaging all along and gets pissed. Sully redeems himself by fighting “the man” (Ironman?) and a very large, freaky pterodactyl. The forest and the environmentalists rule the day, and Sully becomes a real boy! I mean, a real native!

This is a long movie (150 minutes) featuring a lead actor who would much better serve an Old Spice commercial. It was unclear whether he was supposed to be an American marine, because hints of an Australian accent peppered the first half of the movie, and then completely took over the second half.

Sigourney Weaver is good as scientist Grace Augustine, but her character, as-written, doesn’t give her much to work with in terms of depth or dialogue. Zoe Saldana is also passable as Neytiri, and villains Giovanni Ribisi and Stephen Lang, as Metal Developer Dude and Bloodthirsty Species-ist Ironman Blackwater Guy are somewhere on the scale from “meh” to “shrug.” But to be fair, Lang’s bicep veins and flat-top pulled out amazing performances.

And make no mistake, as decidedly un-dynamic as any of these performances are, you know who the good guys and bad guys are, because the good characters are white as snow, and the bad guys are unredeemable devils. Don’t look for layers of meaning in a James Cameron script, people. These characters have one, and only one dimension. There’s good and there’s bad, and no in-between. I said there’s no in between! The bad guys always lose and the good guys win. What’s that you say? Ted Kennedy drowned a woman but also did a lot of good as a politician? La la la la I can’t hear you!

Before I deign to mention the inevitable, let’s analyze the strong women characters in Avatar. Weaver’s Grace Augustine is a brilliant scientist who is passionate about the Na’vi, but she can also be culturally condescending. And although she is working for a peaceful plundering of Na’vi resources, she works for the plunderers all the same.

Within the Na’vi social structure itself, females seem to have a respected place. The tribe is ruled by a male and female partnering—the male is the political figurehead while the female is the spiritual leader, similar to the gynarchies we know historically existed in some Native American tribes pre-colonialization, and in other parts of the world. The spiritual world within the Na’vi culture is just as important, if not more important, than the political side—at one point the spiritual leader overrules concerns about Sully because she and Neytiri see that the nature goddess Eywa favors him. And when Eywa speaks, the Na’vi listen. The tribe, and the species as a whole, worship the Eywa and, as an extension of her, they respect all life on their planet (call off the geek hounds, I know it’s technically a moon).

The leading lady, Na’vi Neytiri, is very strong, smart and compassionate. She saves Sully’s life from some sort of hell-hound at the beginning, and from Blackwater Villain Guy at the end. In between, she teaches him how to connect his avatar tail to animals and plants, how to hunt and even how to frolic. The Na’vi women in general seem to have the same expectations and rites of passage as the males, including hunting and animal-riding. When Sully and Neytiri finally consummate their months-long flirtation, her betrothed is upset that she’s with someone else, but there isn’t really the same sense of being sexually deflowered or ruined like a ladybrain might expect, since that theme is rampant in other such love triangle scenarios.

You see that? I found something to talk about besides the visuals of Avatar, which frankly, although different from other humanoid alien worlds, still looked like a video game. Let’s just end there, and hopefully make this the only review in the history of Avatar that kept the visuals-talk to one sentence or less.

Feminist Grade: B

Although this is white-dude written and directed, the female characters are strong, mostly positive ones.

Moviegoer Grade: D +

"I see you. You're overrated."

Women Make Strides in 2010 Oscar Nominations

2010-02-03T12:35:00.000-08:00

All of we feminazis are abuzz since the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced the 2010 Oscar nominations. Why were we so pumped?

Two of the 10 nominees for Best Picture are directed by women (The Hurt Locker, An Education), one is co-written by a woman (District 9), and three of the films are about women (Precious, An Education, The Blind Side). There are other noteable breakthroughs—one of the films about women is about an African-American woman, and one of the Best Picture nominees was directed by a gay, African-American man. Both this man, Lee Daniels, and The Hurt Locker director Kathryn Bigelow are also up for Directing Oscars, and either one would be a huge upset for a long, long tradition of white dude self-congratulation for such masterpieces as Titanic and Crash. I so wish there was a font that indicated eye-rolling. Adding Avatar to the cadre of Best Picture winners, by the way, would force my eyes to roll entirely out of my skull, in addition to making me want to burn things.

But I have no reason to start lighting fires yet, since the awards ceremony isn’t until March 7. All told, the first year of doubling the number of Best Picture nominees to 10 has allowed for a better, more diverse pool of nominees than usual, and this pleases me as a cinephile and as a feminist.

But as you surely know, the feminist value of these most-revered films of the year doesn’t start and end with female leads and directors. Thus, in the coming weeks, I’ll be posting feminist reviews of all of the Best Picture nominees. That means I have a little homework to do, having not yet seen Precious or A Serious Man.

The Best Picture nominees are:

Avatar

The Blind Side

District 9

An Education

The Hurt Locker

Inglourious Basterds

Precious: Based on the Novel “Push” by Saphhire

Up in the Air

A Serious Man

The other awards nominees can be found here.

Sexbot. This gave me the JIBBLIES

2010-02-01T13:28:00.000-08:00

So someone invented a talking sex robot. I'll be taking wagers as to which sex/gender the sex robot is designed to imitate. It's pretty much a coin flip, right?

HAHAHA. GOOD ONE.

Yes, geniuses, you guessed it. It's designed to look like a lady. A thin white lady with big lips, painted on makeup, fake boobs and sex organs, a computer with voice recognition software and ... I don't know. Not much else. Here were a few choice quotes:

"She even comes loaded with five distinct "personalities," from Frigid Farrah to Wild Wendy, that can be programmed to suit customers' preferences."

Fantastic, I was hoping that there would be a product that would oversimplify the inner lives of women and re-package them into a few titillating varieties.

"'There's a tremendous need for this kind of product,' said Hines, a computer scientist and former Bell Labs engineer."

Oh yeah, there's a tremendous need for this, alright... Because, I mean, so few women these days properly play their role of acquiescent sperm receptacle. You'd think a few of us might have realized we're fully human, or something.

This next one was my favorite:

"She doesn't vacuum or cook, but she does almost everything else"

OMG HAHAHAHA. Get it? Women are supposed to vacuum and cook! And that, on top of the services she DOES perform (sperm receptacle, remember?) is "everything!" Hey ladies! Are you vacuuming, cooking or being filled with sperm right now? No? Well, get to it, because that's everything, for you. The entire scope of your world. Fucking precious.

OK, now I have a few questions for CNN. WHY THE FUCK IS THIS NEWS? Why is CNN talking about a product that commodifies women and their sexuality and sends the message that women aren't quite whole humans? Because it's a little niftier than all of the other ones?

FUCKING HELL, CNN.

Sexism didn't disappear in my hiatus: "rock like men" edition.

2010-01-29T12:58:00.001-08:00

So I'm back. My hiatus was full to bursting with grad school applications and other sources of personal angst. I pulled through. As the title suggests, though, the forces of sexism took no such hiatus. I wish the nefarious forces of sexism had to write, compile and pay for a few dozen grad school apps. That wouldn't leave much time or money for oppression and discrimination.

When I arrived at work yesterday morning, I asked co-blogger HB if she had read that morning's thought homogenizer (this is what I call Washington Post Express, the free newspaper everyone reads on the metro. oh, excuse me, some people read the ... Examiner? It's barely a real thing). She had, but had avoided the article that drew my ire, because when she saw that there was a writeup on a female-fronted rock band, she feared the worst. HB was correct. This article is THE WORST. Particularly the last few paragraphs. Here they are, courtesy of writer Nathan Martin (extra points for two dude-names!!)

The fast-driving music, irreverent humor and whiskey-fueled live shows might earn Those Darlins fans, but being a band fronted by females still comes with a predictable price.

"We're treated pretty much like you'd expect a female band to be treated: People call us an all-girl band when we're not," said Kvarnes, referring to drummer Linwood Regensberg. "Who gives a [expletive] if we're girls? We're not singing about feminist subjects; we're just a bunch of goofy people who like to have a good time and play fun music."

But even Darlins can dish out sarcastic sass when provoked.

"We get the fratty dudes being, like, 'Oh, great — a girl band. I bet they're going to sing about their periods or something, but you guys were actually good,' and I'm like, 'Oh, we were actually good. Thanks a lot, you ..." We had to delete the rest, in case there's any doubt a trio with a cuddly name can fight — and rock — like men.

Alright, my problems with this are numerous. First there's the old "but we're not feminists!!" canard. Ok, sure, you're making music that you feel is broadly relatable and not alienating to people who do not identify as feminists. But the very act of getting up, playing music and telling the stories of three young women from the point of view of said young women (and in the process illustrating that you're "just a bunch of goofy people" and not necessarily defined by your sex/gender)? Yep, that's a feminist act. And you should be thanking your feminist forebears on all places of the radical-ness spectrum for the fact that you have the ability to do it.

I'll cut the quoted musicians a small amount of slack because they didn't get to choose which quotes were used and one of them took the swipe at the casual misogyny of "fratty" dudes. The writer slips in a doozy of his own, though, in the closing sentence. "..in case there's any doubt that a trio with a cuddly name can fight -- and rock -- like men." This one really pissed me off. First, it comes directly after a paragraph expressing the anoyance of one of the musicians at being called an all female band, and then does exactly that. They're not a trio with a cuddly name, they're a quartet. The male drummer is a "Darlin'" too. And then the assertion that they fight and rock like men. Well, I bet the drummer, who's a man, is really glad to hear that ...? And I bet that the women in the band -- who categorically do NOT rock like men, by virtue of rocking while women and therefore rocking LIKE women -- are probably relieved to hear that they have, in the opinion of this one dude, exceeded the natural limitations imposed by their ladybits? And I'm sure that Janis Joplin, Grace Slick, Chrissie Hynde, Debbie Harry, Joan Jett, Alanis on that one album (you know which one), Siouxsie Sioux, Kathleen Hannah, and SO MANY OTHERS are glad to hear that it's still only men who rock. To the point that there aren't even any female rockers to make a comparison to.

Meanwhile, the rest of us who aspire to do X (whatever is is that we do, outside of the very narrow prescribed confines of femininity and acceptable female endeavors), are interested to learn that to be taken seriously we will have to do it like men. You know, the default humans.

In other news, Those Darlins are pretty decent. Some of their songs are quite catchy. Here's their website, and the picture that appeared with the article. Apologies to their drummer, who did not make the band photo due to not fitting in with the "all girl bannnddd1!!?!" dog and pony show.

More of Dear Prudence's Sexist Advice

2010-01-07T12:10:00.000-08:00

A particularly obnoxious bit of advice from The Slate's advice columnist was the sexist straw that broke the feminist's back last summer, when I decided to launch this blog to air my grievances with her advice column and any other media I felt compelled to write about, and had time to write about.

You don't have to dig particularly far to expose "Prudie's" slut shaming, heteronormative, woman-hating advice for what it is, but I still read her column most Thursdays for the surprise grand slams. Every once in a while, "Prudie" just drops some bullshit into my lap. It hardly even needs analyzing, it's so preposterous as-is. In today's column, I got lucky.

Dear Prudence,
I'm a new teacher at a private tutoring firm. We give one-on-one lessons to kids ages 13 to 18. I've twice had the experience of sitting at a table with a male student and seeing the student "adjust" himself. Both times, the student actually put his hand down his pants. The first time, I was so shocked I couldn't hide the expression on my face, and the 17-year-old asked what was wrong. I told him firmly but kindly that it was not appropriate to do that in public and that if he was ever uncomfortable, he should use the bathroom. The second time was with a 14-year-old student. I tried not to say anything, but then he started typing on my computer, so I had to say, "It's not appropriate to put your hands down your pants in public." He protested, "Well, it itches!" I replied that scratching there in public, especially going inside the pants, was still inappropriate. When he left, I broke out the Lysol and germ wipes. Did I handle this
in an acceptable manner? What should I do if it happens again? And shouldn't teenage boys already know not to do this?
—Desperate for a Public Service Announcement to Teenage Boys

Dear Desperate,
For insight into "adjustments," I talked to my resident expert on the intricacies of teenage-male behavior, my 14-year-old daughter. She observed: "If boys don't understand something in class, or if during P.E. they need an extra boost of confidence, you can see them putting their hand in their pants. Some of the boys, every time they're going to throw a ball, they put their hand in their pants first! It's so funny. But it's not like they're 26 years old and perverts; they're
just boys. None of the teachers say anything. Sometimes if the girls see them and they're being really gross, we'll say, 'Get your hand out of your pants!' " (My daughter also explained that females have a more socially acceptable outlet: "If you're a girl and you're nervous, you flip your hair.") One-on-one tutoring with an adult woman puts a boy in a high-stress situation, and I'm surprised so few of them have grabbed for some comfort. If you have a student who spends the entire session holding on for dear life, you should have a male co-worker pull him aside for a little chat. But some teenage boys, in need of a brief shot of reassurance, are occasionally going to seek out something handy. Eventually, the taunts from their peers should wean them off this habit—after all, you aren't complaining that your male colleagues are drifting pantsward when they need a lift. Ignore the occasional adjustment, and if supporting the disinfectant industry makes you feel more secure, wipe away.
—Prudie

This exchange left me totally baffled. So first, there's the classic "boys will be boys" excuse for this, admittedly, unhygenic and bizarre behavior. Yes, I'm aware that sometimes adjustment is necessary, but I can't help but think about what would happen if a young woman's hands wandered down her pants or into her bra in public--people wouldn't assume it was for a confidence boost. And since when is one teenager's bizarre interpretation of this phenomena a universal truth? Why would making sure your penis is still intact equate to self-assurance? It's probably partially pleasure-seeking behavior, which is typically acceptable for men and not women. Babies play with their genitals, and young men get a free pass for being immature and inappropriate, while young women do not. Sounds like some sexual privilege to me.

Oh, but then there's the notion that girls also have a universal nervous tick: hair-flipping. I love the very clear distinction between boys' behavior and girls' here, and that the boys' is tied to their physical sex while girls' is tied to the socially constructed gender, and specifically the beauty standard of long, white hair (the better to flip with, my dear!). And the fact is, that's not really comparing apples to apples. That's comparing head-hair to genitals. A real equivalency would be exploring the idea of a social reaction to girls grabbing crotch constantly. But we wouldn't want to make "Prudie" think too hard on sex, would we? Let's just ask the nearest teenager what he or she thinks.

Fellow blogger Liz also points out that the hair-flipping is not only a beauty standard and gender-identity assumption for all females, it's also not a biological response like genital-grabbing. At least we can say that the boys' behavior is well-documented in babies, and thus not necessarily taught and learned, whereas hair-flipping is absolutely a learned behavior associated with flirting. It's another way young girls are supposed to be fun and sexy, but not sexual.

And I always love the "girls have it so much better than boys!"canards that pop up in media. In this case, assuming that all girls flip their hair to ease stress, that's a much more acceptable way of boosting confidence than grabbing one's genitals. Teenage girls are so lucky to have this universally feminine pep-talk-in-a-can. Forget the fact that teen girls' self-confidence takes a much more thorough lashing than boys' at that age, through media and social expectations.

When I Grow Up

2009-12-16T12:05:00.000-08:00

I want to be the New York Times film critic, because Manhola Dargis is my new hero after reading this Jezebel interview.

Although, I'm not afraid to be the feminist movie critic. That's what I prefer to be. Now that grad school applications are signed, sealed and delivered, I'm all yours, blogosphere. And I've got a lot to tell you.

A White Woman's Shallow Understanding of Black Hair

2009-11-16T11:11:00.000-08:00

Another possible title for this post: what Smalls has been up to in a women's studies class. After being introduced to the complexities and connotations of black women's hairstyles by Liz via Shakesville, I chose this topic for a report this freckly, blue-eyed white woman stumbled through in front of a mostly multi-racial class, including two African women. The report went over well and the African women spoke up about the hair pressures in their respective countries. One said that it was normal for girls' heads to be shaved all through school, but the girls who were sent abroad for school always had braids or wigs because they were picked on in other countries for looking too boyish.

I was inspired by this Time article, in which Jenee Desmond-Harris discusses the impact of first lady Michelle Obama’s image. When the first lady attended a festival with her hair pinned up last July, a media frenzy erupted because people who saw photographs of Obama were unclear whether or not she had cut her hair short. Obama’s muscular arms, sleeveless dresses, bare legs and shorts have all made headlines since she became a public figure.

But one style point that stands out, especially to black women, is Obama’s choice to straighten her hair, since black women’s hair is naturally curled very tightly. Journalists have wondered if Obama straightens her hair with heat alone, or with the help of chemicals, and bloggers have discussed why Obama would hesitate to wear her hair in a natural style. But the hesitation becomes clear when Desmond-Harris considers the implied connections between hair and placement in the social hierarchy, that the natural ways for black women to wear their hair have subversive and even sexual connotations, as evidenced in Don Imus’ verbal attack on the Rutgers women’s basketball team and the controversial New Yorker magazine cover featuring Obama with an Afro. Desmond-Harris recognizes that Obama and the president crushed a huge political barrier, being the first black family in the White House, but that social barriers for black women remain. Being a public figure, Obama brings black women’s social issues to center stage. As a black woman, Desmond-Harris sees a woman in the White House dealing with the same image standards as herself, and wonders if the choices black women make with their hair will ever be a non-issue.

Reading Desmond-Harris’ article as a white woman, I felt a lot of guilt at the idea of black women’s success being so closely tied to a beauty standard that limits their options. All American women are held to ridiculous beauty standards that demand we be thin, big-breasted and delicate among many other things, to be feminine and desirable. But within these beauty standards, I can see that the decisions black women make with something as trivial as a hairstyle can be a loaded choice, when the successful women on television and in politics conform mostly to the standard of making their hair more like white women’s hair. As a white woman of Western European descent, the images of women in fairy tales, movies and even advertisements all show women that look like me. When I wake up in the morning, I have to worry about women’s beauty standards when I consider my hair, makeup and dress, but the decision to wear my hair straight and down takes me a fraction of the time it would take a black woman, because my hair falls naturally straight. I never have to worry that wearing my hair how it naturally dries after showering will affect my reputation at work, or even make people question my beauty according to the typical standards. It’s clear from Desmond-Harris’ arguments and from other viewpoints, that there are unfair connotations for hairstyles that come more naturally to black women.

Michelle Obama is widely considered a beautiful, stylish and sophisticated woman, but Desmond-Harris’ article “Why Michelle’s Hair Matters” points out that Obama’s image is carefully constructed to fit a beauty and image standard that has social implications for black women everywhere. Black women’s hair is curly, and there are ways to style it without chemicals or excessive heat, but natural styles like Afros, dreadlocks and braids have negative social connotations. Although all women deal with beauty standards that dictate behavior and body image, the beauty standards favoring straight hair in the United States take considerable time and money for women with curly hair to conform to. These standards not only establish what is desirable, they dictate black women’s professional and social opportunities.

Because black women’s hair is naturally curly, if a famous black woman like Obama wears her hair straight, observers jump to a number of conclusions for how Obama’s hair got that way, all of them requiring significant effort. Desmond-Harris talks about the possibility that Obama had her hair chemically relaxed, blow dried and straightened or hot-combed. Whatever the method, one thing is clear: It took a lot of work. Desmond-Harris mentions that Tyra Banks, another black celebrity renowned for her style and beauty, was relinquished the hair extensions she’s worn for her entire public life on the season premiere of The Tyra Show. The extensions, wigs, chemicals, straightening irons and hot combs are implied every time the public sees a black woman with straight hair, and going without these significant efforts can be controversial.

Black women don’t go through the straightening process for no reason—the natural ways to style black hair are often considered unprofessional, subversive or dangerous. Desmond-Harris cites commenters on the Philadelphia Inquirer web site sympathizing with Obama’s choice to wear her hair straight. One commenter admits that she wears her hair straight for the first few months of a job, and one wrote, “Girl, ain’t no braids, twists, Afros, etc. getting into the White House just yet.” But why would it be outrageous for Obama to wear one of these hairstyles?
Desmond-Harris points out that the controversial New Yorker cartoon image satirizing Obama as a militant pictured her donning an Afro, not by coincidence. By relinquishing a natural hair style like the Afro, Obama is conforming to a beauty standard that favors white women, a standard that has been established in the United States since Colonial times by the people that have been in power since then—white men. For Obama to wear her hair naturally would likely make white men, or white women, uncomfortable, helped along by the associations people make between Afros and black pride, cornrows and gang culture, or dreadlocks and Rastafarians. The link these hairstyles have to black pride or even Afro-centrism clearly makes people nervous, as if the hairstyles could lead to a social hierarchy shift. The fact that the styles associated with black pride are ones that complement black women’s naturally curly hair is probably no coincidence—any style besides laboriously straightening hair to look more “white” is easier for black men and women to wear and maintain. On the other hand, hairstyles that Caucasians are comfortable with, the ones that are never considered out of uniform in police departments or the military, are the ones that come naturally to white people. As the previously mentioned commenter pointed out, the White House isn’t ready for a black woman whose hair isn’t styled like a white woman’s—a black woman can be the first lady if she’s not too black. If Obama didn’t spend the time and effort to straighten her hair, she would most likely not be considered such a stylish, beautiful and sophisticated woman.

Because Obama is a smart, successful black woman whose closest relationship is that with the leader of the free world, her actions and decisions reverberate in the cultures she represents. Desmond-Harris writes that the web is afire with blogs dedicated to dissecting Obama’s style and hair choices, analyzing why and when Obama gave up her “schoolgirl’s curls” as seen in her 1985 Princeton graduation photo. Black women and girls who look up to Obama seem to be wondering why and when Obama made the decision to start straightening her hair, and whether they should do the same to send a message of maturity and sophistication. But in addition to the influence she will have for black women, Obama also has the power to normalize black women’s hair for everyone else. Desmond-Harris mentions the obnoxious questions she encounters when discussing the care of braids or dreadlocks with people who aren’t black. She mentions people’s confusion of how to wash one’s hair when wearing those styles, and the assumptions people make that the styles are “dirty” because they aren’t conducive to the washing habits that are easiest for white hair. These questions have implications of their own, that these styles aren’t civilized, that they’re savage. But these notions could be swayed if black hair in its natural state was considered normal. In college, a white professor gasped and gaped at a classmate and friend of mine when she wore her hair curly once—hair that was usually straightened and shoulder length was all of a sudden very short and curly. My classmate eventually stopped the professor’s exclamations by saying, “this is how black people’s hair usually is.” I would guess that this ignorance about black women’s hair is pretty widespread, because people might not realize that straight hair isn’t natural for black women.

All women deal with beauty standards that dictate how to behave and look, but the current hair standards in the United States favor white women. While women deal with constant messaging about weight loss, health, attire and sexuality, most of the non-black population doesn’t have to worry about expensively taming their hair to go on a job interview. These are considerations that other women simply don’t have to think about, if they have socially-acceptably curly hair. The level of curliness that seems acceptable is the kind we see every day in women held up as beautiful: long, flowing hair with loose curls, or curls that have seem to be controlled on some level. The fad curls that have come and gone mostly represent straight hair intentionally made a little curly, the work of perms, irons or curlers. Even curly-haired Jewish women in my life are adamant about straightening their hair, almost as a defensive move to not look as identifiably Jewish, since their curls are more on the uncontrollable side of the spectrum. Because their hair texture and color was one way Jewish men and women were identified during the Holocaust, it’s an understandable reaction. Even if they’re not worried about death, Jewish women certainly could be defending themselves against anti-Semitism in many forms in the present day, in the same way that black women are defending themselves against the reputation of being dangerous for proudly wearing dreadlocks or an Afro.

Black women know well what it takes to make their hair straight, although people born with straight or socially-acceptably curly hair might not understand the expense and time it takes black women to attain this beauty standard. Being the first black first lady means that Obama will always be a trailblazer, and hopefully her example will inspire black women everywhere that they can accomplish as much as she has scholastically and surely, in the next four years, politically. With natural-hair awareness on the rise on the web from feminists and other proud black women, hopefully braids, twists, Afros and dreadlocks aren’t too far from the White House. I recognize that I can’t fully appreciate the pressure black women face regarding their hairstyles, but I will try to understand and be an ally in whatever way I can be.

A Ladybrain Abeyance

2009-11-13T05:53:00.000-08:00

Hello internet-land. Please forgive our months-long blog neglect. My partner in crime and I have been go-go-go since the beginning of October, with grad school preparations, marathons and that pesky business of making a living.

I'm going to post some of my current women's studies musings, and probably the intro to what I hope will be my dissertation proposal: an analysis of women's role in three John Hughes films, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Those are also three of my favorite movies of all time, so it's a tough topic. So far, the analysis hasn't been pretty.

So stay tuned for some more analysis from Liz and Smalls, especially after the first of the year. Until then, take the time to catch up on 30 Rock (I'm on season three) via Netflix streaming. Make sure to keep tabs on Sarah Haskins' Target Women segments, too. Support the few strong women in Hollywood at the box office and on the interwebz.

Ladybrain Movie Review: Whip It

2009-10-01T08:14:00.000-07:00

Roller derby, a coach in Drew Barrymore’s new movie Whip It reminds us, is more than fishnets and tough stage names. But it’s undeniable that the sport, in which roller-skating women—yes, often in fishnets, short skirts and heavy eyeliner—race around a track, body-checking and tripping opponents along the way, has a certain allure. To paraphrase the same coach character, it’s a contact sport, and the players certainly “make contact.”

Derby enthusiasts (Liz and I among them) and people who like good movies about women have been eagerly awaiting the release of this derby-themed movie since the trailer hit the web months ago, and they won’t be disappointed.

Set in and around Austin, Texas, Whip It follows Bliss Cavendar (Ellen Page, of Juno fame), a meek high-school senior with misfit tendencies, who gets in touch with her ballsy self when she ditches the beauty pageant circuit in favor of Austin’s derby scene. Coming in to her own as ace-in-the-hole Babe Ruthless for her team, the Hurl Scouts, Bliss keeps her beloved derby life a secret from her parents, especially her former beauty-queen mom. Along the way, Cavendar falls for a tight-pantsed indie dude, makes an enemy of a competing derby star (Juliette Lewis as Iron Maven) and befriends her crazy teammates, like “your favorite Whole Foods clerk” Smashley Simpson (Barrymore) and Maggie Mahem (Kristen Wiig).

Bliss has to figure out whether embracing her new life will mean leaving behind her old one, including her family and her best friend and partner-in-crime Pash (Alia Shawkat), who is as determined as Bliss to leave small-town Texas behind.

Along the way, Bliss butts heads with several people, mostly women, but the film handles these opponents in a much more sympathetic way than most do. In fact, apart from a brief segue into “stalking is a compliment” territory, no hugely offensive sexist themes stuck out in this movie, a breath of fresh air for a wide release.

As an edgy, angsty type, Bliss clashes with the beauty pageant scene, including a malicious fellow contestant who harasses Bliss at work and school. This nemesis is the only female character whose behavior the film doesn’t bother to excuse—she’s just the kind of bitchy, vapid girl who would tape up naked Barbies in someone’s locker to hurl the ultimate insult, that Bliss and Pash are gay. But another beauty pageant contestant, although she and Bliss will never be great friends, still garners sympathy as an insecure girl in the judgemental pageant world. She and Bliss still treat each other kindly, and the girl plays an interesting part in helping Bliss and her mother reach common ground.

Bliss’ mother, played brilliantly by Marica Gay Harden, also represents the pageant world, which disgusts Bliss as a 1950s-style idea of womanhood. The conflict and resolution between mother and daughter, both tough women, is realistic and touching. Even when the issue of sex comes up in a conversation between them, it’s treated with remarkable sensitivity—no slut shaming or exploitation in sight, just one woman helping another understand herself.

In her derby world, Bliss inspires jealousy in derby star and opponent Iron Maven (Lewis—is she ever not amazing?) who feels threatened by the rookie savant. But even this competitive relationship is more than one tough, aging woman’s jealousy of her young opponent. Maven’s admission to Bliss about how long it took her to find something she was really good at, and how hard she had to work to get there, is such a genuine, thoughtful portrayal of a character who is otherwise ruthless. Maven knows Bliss has years and years of derby ahead of her. It doesn’t seem fair that it came so easily to someone so young. But when Maven has a chance to force Bliss out of the league, Maven prompts Bliss to make peace with her two identities. Maven even admits that she doesn’t want to force Bliss out on a technicality; she wants to beat Bliss on the track.

I won’t tell you what happens in the derby tournament, or the details of the naïve-first-love story, except to voice my approval at the fact that Bliss doesn’t take shit from anyone, and the fact that sex is neither omitted nor exploited in this movie. I also want to commend Ellen Page for managing to take off tights in a swimming pool.

For a great time at the movies, go see Whip It when it comes out tomorrow. For a great time at derby, go see your local roller girls.

In Other Sad Rape News: Mackenzie Phillips

2009-09-30T10:26:00.000-07:00

[Trigger warning.]

Last week, I heard some news that I'd describe as soul-crushing, to the extent that it just kind of makes me sad to be alive in a world where things like this happen.

Mackenzie Phillips--a child star with an infamously drug-addled adolescence--reveals in a new book that she was raped by her father, musician John Phillips of The Mamas and the Papas, and that the relationship became what she calls consensual later, ending when Mackenzie Phillips terminated a pregnancy and determined that she "would never let him touch her again."

The American media rushed to sensationalize this horror show, recalling the same issues of using the word "sex" to describe what was clearly, in at least one instance identified by Mackenzie Phillips herself as rape (see Liz's post from yesterday for a great example from the Roman Polanski coverage). For more on the shoddy coverage, see this Shakesville thread [trigger warning]. In addition to this typically ridiculous coverage, I've seen some familiar victim-blaming: She consented later, she's a junkie, she just wants attention, she shouldn't have brought it up.

All of this is depressing as hell, and really hard to talk about. I briefly tried to describe my reactions to Liz last week, and utterly failed. I've been following the story closely, though, and always leave humbled and somber. There is a lot left to be answered here, like whether consent is relevant in a case that Mackenzie calls a "betrayal" and an abuse of power, whether she could have ever really consented in a situation this rife with abuse and confusion. I'm grateful that Sady of Tiger Beatdown attempted to make heads or tails of this case with a recent post. Reading her discussion provides solidarity for those wading in the confusion and tragedy of this situation.

I know Mackenzie Phillips from two roles: the teenage tag-along in American Grafitti and the rockstar mom in So Weird. Her fucked up childhood, during which her Dad gave her hard drugs from the time she was a pre-teen, has been well documented. I remember when I watched The Disney Channel's So Weird as a kid, my mom told me the story of Mackenzie Phillips' childhood, and how she hoped Phillips' role on the show meant that she was off drugs for good. Until I heard Phillips' new claims, I was sad enough for her drug-doomed life.

Well, here's hoping future media coverage is more fair about rape, and that Phillips' story brings the dark problems of incest and rape to light, and eventually to prevention. It's a tall order.

Hollywood's Rape Apologia

2009-09-30T08:54:00.000-07:00

[Trigger warning.]

After Liz brought up the media coverage of Roman Polanski's recent arrest, I thought we could use a little blog closure on the topic, even though "closure" in this case can be more accurately described as "disgust."

As you've probably read, Polanski was arrested in Switzerland last week when he entered the country to attend a film festival and receive an award. He's been living and working in Europe for the last three decades. He fled the United States to avoid being sentenced for unlawful sex with a minor--a crime to which he confessed. His 13-year-old victim testified that Polanski gave her champagne and Quaaludes and that he didn't stop his mulitple assaults when she repeatedly said "no."

There are several facts that people like to insert at this point, to brush off and excuse Polanski's actions. The victim had a pushy mother who intended Polanski to sleep with her daughter. The judge in Polanski's case behaved improperly. Polanski thought he had a plea bargain. Polanski has been living in "exile" outside the United States, therefore suffering the horrible fate of not being able to return to Hollywood to direct the many films he's made since the 70s. His victim does not wish to prosecute Polanski anymore. And of course, it wouldn't be rape apologia if we didn't insert the classic: She wanted it.

What all of these "but, but, buts" don't change, however, is that sex between a 40-year-old man and a 13-year-old girl has a name: statutory rape. It's got rape in the name, because regardless of the drugs and liquor, or even supposed consent, in the eyes of the law it's assumed that the power structure that exists between adults and children makes it impossible for a child to truly consent to sex with an adult. Any such act is not truly understood by the child, and is an abuse of power. Why we wouldn't believe the testimony of a girl over Polanski is another issue. What we do know is that Polanski confessed to an act that is rape, of a child, period, and never served his time.

More insightful writers have detailed this case and the reaction from Hollywood's elite, especially the depressing number of film industry people (Wes Anderson, sigh) who have signed a petition in support of Polanski. I encourage you to read the pieces on Salon and Jezebel. I also encourage you to check in on this Shakesville thread every once in a while, where you'll hopefully see the list of celebrities speaking out against the rape apologia as this case pans out.

Rape: Not Synonymous with Sex

2009-09-28T07:36:00.001-07:00

So I read a headline this morning, and I didn't even have to look at the article to be 100% convinced that the headline was wrong. Right there in my morning paper. The headline was this:

Polanski Arrested in Sex Case

No he wasn't. SEX is not illegal. One does not get arrested in for committing sex. Polanski was arrested in a RAPE case. because he allegedly committed RAPE.

"Director Roman Polanski was arrested by Swiss police as he flew in for the Zurich Film Festival and faces possible extradition to the United States for having sex with a 13-year-old-girl in 1977, authorities said Sunday."

True, his actual guilty plea was for "unlawful sexual intercourse" with the underage girl, but even if you somehow accept the notion that a 13 year old girl can give valid consent to sex with a middle aged man, it still qualifies as, at the least, statutory rape. In any case, it's not sex.

The bright and vigilant feminist blogosphere has done a very good job pointing out the media's rape-apologist presentations of rape as sex, and the ways in which it diminishes the seriousness and consequences of rape.

I think this sort of presentation does damage to "sex" as well. It sort of feeds into this idea that sex is something that's dirty and scary and sordid. I mean, sheesh, it's something you can get arrested for. And I don't like that. Sex can be great. Sex happens between consenting adults and can bond relationships or provide pleasure, and myriad other positive things. Of course, it can also suck, just like other nice things can suck, depending on the circumstances. And yes, there are risks and possible consequences that absolutely need to be addressed in smart, comprehensive sex ed.

But sex and rape are not the same thing. They're not even particularly similar. And we do a disservice to both terms and, especially, to rape survivors, when we conflate the two.

Periods and Purification

2009-09-21T11:17:00.000-07:00

Last week, I read an essay called “Purification” by Grace Poore, an autobiographical account and analysis of the Tamil traditions associated with a young girl’s first menstrual period. In the essay, which you can find in this anthology, Poore describes the alienation and purification rituals young girls go through when they start menstruating. Poore had to follow a specific diet, submit to superstitious rules (don’t wash your hair during the first three days or you’ll get dark circles under your eyes), stay home from school, wash and hang her clothes separately from her family's, keep her distance from her brother and finally submit to a humiliating purification ceremony where she was washed with milk to cleanse herself and her house.

I’m always interested in menstruation stories, because there’s so much shame surrounding this biological function that girls can’t control. One of my first rebellious streaks as a teenager involved talking openly about my period to show I wasn’t ashamed of it, inspired by my dad yelling at me to “put that thing away” when he spotted a tampon in my truck, because “that’s embarrassing.” I thought at the time, “Is it really that embarrassing, dad? The biological process that makes it possible for me to have children, and for you to have grandchildren, is something embarrassing?” I mean, later on in life, there will be social expectations that I’ll have children, and my dad will presumably be asking when he can expect to hear the pitter patter of feet kicking to get out of my insides.

But that physical fact of menstruating—that it’s a part of the biology that makes babies possible—is only acceptable and unthreatening later in women’s lives, when they’re settled down with the menfolk within the legal and spiritual bounds of marriage that make everyone more comfortable with women having sex and being knocked up in a controlled way. (Controlled by who? Anyone but them.)

When you’re a teenager, periods are something to be ashamed of, because your body is sending the shameful message: Grand opening of sexual maturity, come on down! Meanwhile, society is trying to keep you and your ladyparts chaste.

“But wait,” you think. “When I started my period at 12-years-old, I wasn’t out looking for sex any more than I had been the days and weeks before I started my period.” Well, that doesn’t matter. Consider the angry way Grace Poore’s mother reacts to her daughter’s total bewilderment at finding blood on her skirt: She snaps at her daughter for not knowing what to do with a pad that involves loops and a belt, enforces a strict diet, keeps her daughter home from school for a week, forbids Poore to speak about the situation and refuses to explain any of it to Poore, who is left wondering what she did wrong. It’s almost as if one day, Poore was an innocent young girl and the next day, she started menstruating and became someone to tame and suspect. At Poore’s purification ceremony, during which she was bathed in milk by a stranger to cleanse her and even the air in the house of her monthly condition, she describes being scrutinized by her family and friends:

Then, all eyes fell on me. They studied my face, my hair, the color of my skin. They looked carefully to see if I would make a suitable daughter-in-law someday. Finally, done with their scrutiny , they came over and shook my hand…they swarmed over to the feast Mother had laid out for them and forgot my presence. I sat in my chair and watched them. Amidst the smells of ladhus and gulab jamuns, chicken curry and spiced rice, I became invisible.

Thus, after this tradition that supposedly celebrates a young woman's entrance into the adult club, she realizes that women in her culture (and she's not alone, it's true in most cultures) are invisible in their daily routines and accomplishments. From the moment her ceremony is over, she'll be expected to take her place in a daily domestic routine, where her work will be expected and unnoticed unless she deviates from the norm.

I was struck by how coldly Poore's mother treated her, as if Poore somehow turned sinister slut overnight. One would think that Poore’s mother would have felt sympathy for her daughter, who was about to go through a humiliating and isolating process. Instead of sympathy and communication as someone who had been through it, Poore’s mother angrily refuses to explain the situation, leaving the young Poore utterly bewildered about what is happening to her and why. At least Poore seems determined not to pass on this humiliating treatment of girls to the next generation in her family. Poore writes that in adulthood, she doesn't want to follow in her mother's footsteps and be complicit in these rituals that humiliate young girls for having the audacity to be born female.

I think a lot of women find it really therapeutic to share your-first-period stories because they’re always memorable, although taboo. It’s an experience all women have and can share, but we’re encouraged to keep it to quiet and isolate ourselves from the comfort we could take in solidarity with other women. It is in that spirit that books like My Little Red Book are compiled, along with losing-your-virginity anthologies.

For my part, compared to Poore, my first-period experience was downright PC. The Friday of my first week of seventh grade, I looked down and noticed I was bleeding on the couch while watching The Tonight Show with my mom. I knew vaguely what periods were, and that I wasn't keen to start mine soon, but the suddeness of it left me very sincerely bewildered.

"Mom?"

She followed my eyes and saw what I saw. She rushed up and said, "Wait here, I'll be right back." She walked out the front door with her keys, and returned a short time later with pads from the corner grocery store. She took me to the bathroom and explained, "You wear these in your panties. If you want to learn how to use tampons, just let me know."

When I went to bed a few minutes later, she came to tuck me in. A wave of pessimism had come over me that I couldn't explain. I didn't want to tell her that I wasn't excited, that I dreaded this next phase of my life. I wasn't eager to grow up. I felt a weight on my shoulders that I couldn't quite describe, but I've had the feeling many times since then. I just find it amazing that I was capable of feeling that downtrodden at age 12. I could tell that my mom was excited for me, that she wanted this to be a mother-daughter moment. But she could tell that something was wrong, and that I just wanted this moment to pass as soon as possible. She asked if I was okay, and was anything wrong. I said no, I'm just tired (a response I've used countless times since then, also to avoid explaining what is wrong). I cried and went to sleep. That was 12 years ago.

I never asked my mom how to use tampons. My older friends told me horror stories about how much they hurt, and I read those vapid stories in teen magazines about tampons getting stuck inside you while cliff diving with your crush, how embarassing. My horrible sex education (I'll save that for another post) also left me utterly clueless about where you would even put a tampon. After years of virtual diaper rash (I especially remember horrible discomfort during basketball and volleyball practices) and fear of swimming, Tampax sent some sample tampons with very thorough diagrams and directions for how to use tampons. Thus, sometime during my freshman year of high school, I spent a few hours in my closet, with my door locked, painfully and secretly teaching myself how to insert and take out tampons. When my next period rolled around, I felt like a real woman, a grownup. I walked with a swagger for that one day. Tampons without applicators still thwart me, but I kept that Tampax diagram for years, and I've never looked back.

Back in the Game

2009-09-18T08:08:00.000-07:00

Hello there new wave feminists. Because of some family issues and being so busy in general that L and I constantly battle the urge to curl up with her kept-in-the-office down jacket and pass out in our cubes, we've been too exhausted to blog.

Fortunately, I'll have some fodder from a Women's Studies course I'm taking (stay tuned for some analysis on why Michelle Obama's hairstyle is important), and I'll soon be tackling some sort of film analysis as a thesis and writing sample for grad school. So send L and I good vibes for the GRE as well. I'll advise on my Women's Studies projects as they come up--taking a cue from Tiger Beatdown and some other kick-ass femme bloggers, I'm thinking of writing my thesis on some of the all-American woman-hating John Hughes classics.

But to ease us back into the wide world of ladybrained analysis, let's just take it easy this Friday, and kick it back to school with the ever-awesome Sarah Haskins.

P.S. I had some weird high-school nostalgia feelings yesterday as I watched a 90s-riffic movie while making friendship bracelets and skipping school, I mean work. Aaaah, yes, that was about one-quarter of my high school experience. The Rilo Kiley soundtrack didn't help matters much.

It's Not REAL Food, it's Yogurt

2009-08-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

It's a rainy day here in the Washington, D.C. megalopolis. So let's go back to an oldie and a goodie, Target Women: Yogurt. This is one of my favorite Sarah Haskins segments because it's hilarious, but also because I wish the women in my life would stop comparing their diet habits to mine. It's healthier-than-thou bullshit. And can we all let go of this ridiculous notion that yogurt is delicious? You're not fooling me--yogurt is gelatinous, tasteless ooze. And when it's not tasteless, it's packed with chemicals and aspartame, which for me will mean delicious headaches and possibly preservatives-driven seizures. Yummy!

The whole health Olympics schpiel is pretty transparent. I get it! You're healthier and therefore fit better into the beauty standards women are supposed to measure up to. You eat yogurt and blueberries and you love going hiking. All of this equals a pretty thinly-veiled proclamation: I'm skinny and healthy, right?!

Well, I certainly hope you're healthy, and I hope I am, too, but I'm not going to brag about how little meat I eat and how soda and french fries taste like poison to me. I have been called out by strangers for how Irish I look--potatoes are my favorite food. Stop hating on my french fries. I'm running a marathon this fall, I walk to the train every day to commute to work and sometimes I bike the 30-mile roundtrip trek to commute. I'm as healthy as I need to be, so keep your beauty standards to yourself, and pay attention to Ms. Haskins.

This also reminds me of a commercial Liz and I saw once. Our commentary struck us as amazingly hysterical.

Along with the graphic of a container of yogurt slimming down in its fat, fat midsection with the help of what appeared to be a tape-measure girdle, was this commentary:

Commercial: We cut the fat...

Liz: Which makes it yogurt!

Commercial: And we cut the calories...

Smalls: Which makes it food!

Even on a long run last weekend, my running partner confessed that she is motivated in the last few miles of a run by thinking about the food she'll have when she gets home. I second that emotion! Except that when I mentioned making an omelette or having an egg and toast, she bristled and said, "Maybe some yogurt, and fruit or cereal." Since when is an egg and wheat bread bad for you? Eff off, healthier-than-thou sentimented smug people. Leave the beauty standard judgement to the patriarchy and stop jealously eyeing my potato chips.

Women as Weapons of War

2009-08-27T11:05:00.001-07:00

[TRIGGER WARNING]

Monday saw the release of a long-anticipated Inspector General's report on CIA torture of detainees since the "war on terror" began after 9/11. There have been countless allegations of abuse and murder, along with the graphic torture that the IG report documents. Much has been said about the ethics of this torture and many have questioned its effectiveness and asked who, if anyone, should be held responsible for these acts.

Like everyone, I struggle with the notion of war as a way to peace, trying to balance the emotional truth and religious belief that violence is never acceptable, with the human thirst for vengeance. But it's hard to ever justify the types of violence and sadistic torture that is outlined in the IG report. For a good overview of the types of torture interrogators used, I recommend, via Liz and Shakesville, Glenn Greenwald's synopsis.

But the method of torture I found especially sick was this one: the threat of raping detainees' female family members in front of them.

So, our government is threatening to use rape as a tool of war, not unlike the type of evil we were supposedly fighting when Sadaam Hussein was in power, which included rape and sexual enslavement. That the CIA is using women as a prop for sexual assault, perhaps with approval from the Bush White House, is an apalling power play that demoralizes women as a tool for terrorism. Yes, it's a different kind of terrorism than suicide bombing, but it's spreading fear through sexual exploitation nonetheless. Did CIA interrogators actually fly out mothers, daughters and wives to rape in front of detainees? Probably not. Is it a cruel threat that dehumanizes women as weapons of war? Absolutely.

The admission of using sexual threats as a torture tactic is a new low for a government that has a recent history of war scandals that included sexual humiliation as well as violence.

During Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's confirmation hearing in January, she cited the unacceptable use of rape as a war tool in Congo. In April, she reiterated the problem and said, "We believe there should be no impunity for the sexual and gender based violence, and there must be arrests and punishment because that runs counter to peace." Her statements hit home for people whose peace of mind has been shattered since incidents of sexual assault. There can never be true peace when rape is involved with military defense. Take it from someone who knows, Melissa McEwan:

The idea that impunity for sexual violence is an impediment to peace is one that touches me so deeply and intimately, I don't know if I can sufficiently convey how profoundly meaningful it is to hear my Secretary of State say it. Endemic and epidemic sexual violence without justice is, in its broadest sense, an obstacle to national peace—and then there is this: Surviving sexual assault without justice is not a peaceful life. It decimates all the elements of a peaceful life—one's sense of security, one's peace of mind, one's contentment within one's own skin. I have never again felt the kind of peace I knew before sexual violence without justice.

Rape is a crime of power, hurting victims in one of the most destructive ways imaginable. Since the leaders of the free world so often see themselves as the moral compass for the globe, it would do them well to acknowledge the impact sexual assault has victims all over the world, and to set the standard that sexual crimes will not be used to spread more fear and terror in a world that has plenty of both already.

The full IG report may be read here.

What kind of culture raises kids like this?

2009-08-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

Um, this one.

Check out this disturbing vlog post, wherin this 10ish-year-old child lauds the release of topless photos of the young High School Musical actress Vanessa Hudgens.

I wonder who taught this kid to appreciate the finer points of child pornography and violation of privacy (the recent and 2007 set of Hudgens photos were taken when she was a minor, when her phone was hacked)? My guess: A clear value system that objectifies women from an early age, to show boys that girls exist on earth for boys' sexual entertainment.

But there's also a level of disgust associated with these objects of desire. This kid points out that Hudgens is "dumb as a blonde" (as dumb as some other type of woman, shocker). It's the same reason men seem to be able to disassociate the women they throw dollar bills at in a strip clubs from the women they could bring home to mom--there's a dichotomy of men's expectations, God help you if you're on the slutty end. It's the same disgust that makes strippers, promiscuous women or prostitutes--women upon whom men project their desires--likely to get slut-shamed after a sexual assault. They're not on the angelic side of the sexual dichotomy, maybe they were asking for it.

I can't imagine this little guy even knows what to do with erotic information, other than vaguely dry hump a bed and make obscene gestures with his tongue. Could he possibly even know his way around a bottle of lotion and a Kleenex box yet? I'll have to have the men in my life enlighten me.

My mixed feelings on a famous high school classmate

2009-08-12T15:15:00.000-07:00

Co-blogger Smalls and I went to the same high school. We've been friends since then -- well, once she decided that me being an arrogant, slacker asshole who basically got away with murder (and sleeping) in our honors biology class wasn't a total deal breaker. We went to a private all-girls high school in Arizona that rejects a higher percentage of its applicants than a lot of colleges (it also makes you submit a photo with your application, and all sorts of other weird things). Public education in AZ is pretty bad in a lot of places, so lots of people try to get their kids into this school. For the academics, the sports, the discipline, all of it. Some kids were sent their by parents who were really stretching their budget to give their kids a leg-up in college applications, some kids were on scholarships and some kids were filthy rich.

Our high school class, class of 2003, was something of a juggernaut. By our junior and senior years, the school was pretty over crowded. See, they let in the same number of freshmen each year, but typically, many are gone by senior year. Not us. At our commencement, the nun in charge of discipline, among other things, gave us this ringing endorsement: "Class of 2003. Congratulations. They didn't flunk out, they didn't drop out and we didn't kick 'em out." In a school where girls drop like flies, for reasons ranging from rebellion to nervous breakdown to inadequate grades, this was significant. Our school basically either made people or broke them. And though I highly resented it at the time, that school did a decent job preparing me for the world, considering it was so insular.

Class of 2003 has continued on to be successful too. Me and co-blogger are doing well, by our own standards, and our friends are doing kick ass things, too. Our class has ivy-league scholars and athletes, people who worked full time all the way through college, at great schools all across the country. Filmmakers, published writers, studio artists, philanthropists, athletes, etc. etc. We're rocking out, basically. Not to brag, except that i just did.

Only one of my high school classmates has achieved any real national notoriety. It's fairly clear that she has achieved said notoriety because of who her father is, rather than her individual achievements, but hey, she IS quite famous these days. We'll call her "Shmeghan ShmcCain."

You might have read some of Shmeghan's work, since she is a blogger (oh, I mean blogette), but it's more likely that you've seen/heard her on various television talk shows and other venues, or perhaps you've read rather vicious attacks on her. The subjects of these attacks have ranged from her words to her weight to her privilege as Shmon ShmcCain's daughter, to her age, to basically anything that the general awful misogyny and dismissal aimed at nearly all female public figures can find to latch on to. Suffice it to say that the arguments people have against her RARELY fall into the first category I listed: disagreement with her words.

This is where my feelings get truly mixed. See, i don't think she's particularly brilliant. She never stood out in our high school class full of really bright girls. I disagree with nearly 100% of her actual political positions. For these reasons, I'm not overly interested in what she has to say on most political issues. What interests me a great deal is the WAY she is dismissed. I do not believe that if it were one of the very brilliant girls that I knew in high school who got the lime light that she would be treated any better.

This hypothetical brilliant girl would still be called too fat, too young, undeserving, too stupid, etc. etc. And so, I find myself vociferously defending a person who I've interacted with personally and didn't find very compelling. But I have to defend her, right? I can't just ignore her, as I would your average not-that-compelling middle aged white dude. Because from an identity politics standpoint, she and I have a great deal in common (except, you know, I'm a big homo). She has a great deal in common with all of my brilliant, funny, exceptional female friends and peers -- to differing degrees. And when one of us can be dismissed in this decidedly bullshit manner, we all can.

Here's the part where I'll give young SchmcCain some considerable credit. She has not shut up. I'm glad she hasn't. And on a few issues, I think she has even done a very good job; most particularly, I think she has responded appropriately when people attempt to silence her. When she basically told people to suck it, who called her fat: perfection. Suck it, people. For the record, she's not fat. If fat were seen as value neutral, no one would be calling her fat, because she's decidedly average sized. They're calling her fat to get her to shut up and feel shitty about herself. It's an aspersion that can be cast on any woman, to great effect, regardless of her size. They say it because it's powerful.

If she were fat, she should still tell them to suck it, and she should be shamelessly fat. Because these status-quo-loving-assholes, you know, there are lots of people who they want to categorically exclude from having a voice. They'll use everything in their arsenals ("nah nah, you're fat!" "you're a bitch!" "ur dumb," "you're just a little girl" and on and on) to try to shut people up. So we have to hear their worst and then say "suck it, assholes." And to them, she and I are in the exact same category. So it's in both my personal self interest and an imperative in my code of ethics that I keep standing up for her right to be heard. I will. Even when we disagree.

Ladybrain Review: Name Changes

2009-08-12T11:08:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I married a dude and I took his last name. I do the Hillary Rodham Clinton thing at work, and might continue to do it professionally, but for all legal purposes my birth name is no more.

You might think "bad femimist, very bad!" but I didn't take the decision lightly. When we were dating, my fella talked about changing his name to mine, us both adopting a different last name, or changing our name to a symbol. I shit you not. It was a bracket smiley. :]

My Fella is a fucking adorable human.

So believe me when I tell you that I thought long and hard about it. Because family names are very important to me and because I wanted to establish a family distinction from my controlling parents, I made the decision to change my last name upon tying the knot. And let me tell you, it was a huge pain in the ass. Plane tickets mistakenly made in my married name before I changed my license, or my birth name after I had changed it, credit card not matching any form of identification but my college ID, trips to the MVD, sigh. It sucked. But because it's a societal expectation that I will change my name without giving it a second thought, at least I wasn't met with any indignation.

I've read several essays from men who want to take their wives' names, for any number of reasons, hitting huge road blocks from MVD clerks, friends and family. Here's one from The Globe and Mail.

I was chastised, however, by a coworker of my fella, who identifies as a feminist.

So whatever your decision is, if you're a hetero couple hypenating, a gay couple keeping individual names or anything in between, all I will say to you is this: Congratulations on your nuptials, and don't take shit from people who disapprove of what you decide to do with your name.

But, shocker, most Americans don't share my cavalier attitude on this subject! A recent study from Indiana University and the University of Utah shows that 70 percent of respondents think it's beneficial for women to take their husband's names when they marry, and a little over half of repondents say that there should be a government mandate forcing women to change their names.

I'll let that sink in a little.

Now, once you've recovered from that little gem, let's talk about the language here. I haven't been able to find the study in question online, but the USA Today story implies that the question was worded roughly this way: Is it beneficial for women to take their husband's last name?

That's pretty poor wording for what I'm guessing they're trying to get at. The answer to that question--is it more beneficial for women to do the socially normal thing and take their husband's names--is obviously yes. I'm sure all the women who have endured eye rolls at their hyphens and explanations that they started their careers with their birth names can attest to the fact that it would be much easier in some ways if they were comfortable being Mrs. So-and-So.

If what they're trying to find is people's opinion on whether women should change their names, as a proclimation of the proper-thing-to-do, the question should have been this: Should women take their husband's names when they get married? Bam. Beneficial problem fixed.

Although the study was conducted by universities in conservative-type-states (my bro-in-law pokes fun at his hometown of Seymour, Ind. by pointing out that the former grand wizard of the KKK hails from there), one would assume that they took a random sample of people all over the country. Until we can see the study online, we can't be sure of the sampling or the question-wording.

One thing we can be sure of: If the reports on this study are even close to the true results, we're in worse societal shape than I thought.

No, You're a Bad Feminist

2009-08-12T07:27:00.000-07:00

Don't you love it when feminist women stop fighting sexism and start fighting each other? Such was my experience being judged by a self-identified feminist woman who teaches with my partner. She didn't like the fact that I changed my name upon getting married. Never mind why!

Fella relayed a conversation he had with this lady at school.

Lady: So, you got married last summer. Did your wife take your name?

Fella: Yes.

Lady: Ahhh, I don't understand why women would still take their husband's names. It's so stupid. (Rantrantrant, don'tbotherlettingFellaexplainthereasons).

Upon meeting me at a gig of Fella's (he's in a band), I had this decidedly anti-feminist experience with this lady. At the gig, all of Fella's coworker friends, mostly older women teachers, were there to support him, along with one 20-something woman teacher, who Fella is good friends with.

Lady: We're Fella's groupies. Are you threatened by us?

Me: Ummm.

Lady: Well, maybe not us, maybe her (points at the young woman teacher).

So, I'm glad to see that this feminist has her priorities completely straight. Not bothering to ask why I would make the decision to change my name upon marraige, she just assumes that I'm a dumb broad doing it for no reason at all. Then, she tries to pit me in competition with the only young woman my partner works with. Awesome.

To me, feminists enforcing what I can and can't do is the same thing as men enforcing it. I had my reasons, one of which was to cut the chord with the most controlling man in my life--my father. Being a feminist takes more than just judgement.

John Lennon was a Proud Househusband

2009-08-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

Because I'm a huge Beatles fan, because I've fallen in love with the acoustic version of this song, and because it's a Monday, I think we should all just soak in this John Lennon tune. He reportedly wrote it in response to people wondering why he left the music industry behind in the last few years of his life to hang around The Dakota and be a "househusband."

Ahhh, that's better.

Weeks Without Sarah Haskins

2009-08-07T12:25:00.000-07:00

While happily on vacation, I sadly missed a segment of Target Women, which airs Thursdays on Current TV. Smalls-of-no-cable usually catches it Friday mornings online, in between sneaking in late to the office and scheduling my coffee break.

Here's another classic from Sarah Haskins, my hero. Here, Haskins gives us another lesson on the wacked portrayals of modern marketing: suave, single men in commercials versus blundering idiot married men. What's the variable? He's married to some woman like you!

Happy Friday.

Ladybrain Review: Doing Everything Like a Girl

2009-08-06T12:24:00.000-07:00

After weeks of back and forth, writer Bev Vincent came to a final agreement with his publisher for a final draft of his manuscript. Months later, a new editor swooped in and wrote a scathing two pages of edits on Vincent's story, all the while assuming Vincent was a woman.

Among the first comments this editor (and I do not know who he or she is) offered: “It’s quite a challenge for a writer of one sex to explore writing from the perspective of the opposite sex. Bev Vincent has not done a convincing job.”
The protagonist in my story is a man.

Oh, but it gets better

The editor says: “The story seems far too personal, introspective and emotional for a man . . . It is hard to imagine a fellow from a place like [the setting] uttering the following line.” The editor then provides three sentences from my story as examples. He or she continues, “And I can’t think of many guys from [setting] who call home every Sunday afternoon to talk to their family” [Emphasis his or hers]. Another brilliant insight: “Most men don’t think deeply about the dewy greenness of nature.” The ultimate conclusion: “She [sic] needs to write more convincing [sic] from a man’s perspective.”
I pause here to note that this was the most autobiographical story I’ve ever written, and all the things that the editor complained about were my real observations and my real thoughts cast into the mind of a fictional character participating in fictional events. I did, in fact, call home every Sunday afternoon to talk to my parents, while they were still alive.

Vincent refused to reimagine a piece that he wrote, as a man, about a man, on the whims of a sexist editor. This is a perfect example of sexism hurting everyone. An editor who believes an author to be female swoops in on a final draft--already edited by the publisher's staff--to use bad-woman code words like emotional, personal, introspective and elegant. These descriptions keep women squarely in the mood-swinging, teary-eyed and domestic social spheres, the kind that say we're good at the arts but not math and science.

The editor also does men no favors by fitting them into a macho box where they couldn't possibly write elegantly about nature, or even be close enough with their parents to call home once a week. Women who can write about macho men don't exist, I guess, and neither do sensitive men, outside the world of manuscripts.

This judgement call, based on the androgynous name Bev, brings to mind the i nfuriating study released by Princeton in 2000, showing the clear sexist bias women face when auditioning for orchestras, showing a 50 percent better chance women will get past the first round of cuts if their audition is "blind" or done behind a curtain. You'll notice some other code words for women-aren't-good-at-man-stuff-like-music: They have "smaller technique" and "are more tempermental."

You can read Vincent's full essay on this situation here.

Doing anything "like a girl" doesn't seem to get us very far in this patriarchy.

Female Politicians Should be Well-Dressed

2009-08-05T12:48:00.001-07:00

In light of the terrific news that two American journalists jailed since March 2009 on in North Korea have been finally released, I wanted to point out the role gender has played in diplomacy with North Korea over the past few weeks.

After North Korea conducted seven missile tests and one nuclear device test in the past few months and sketchily handed down 12-year prison sentences for reporters Euna Lee and Laura Ling, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton had harsh words for the reculsive communist state's leaders, likening them to “small children and unruly teenagers and people who are demanding attention."

n response, the North Korean Foreign Ministry spokesman should logically focus on opposing Clinton’s argument or policy, right? Well, that wasn’t exactly his tactic:

“Sometimes she looks like a primary schoolgirl and sometimes a pensioner going shopping.”

Also, don’t forget that this poorly-dressed woman is “by no means intelligent” and a “funny lady.” I just wonder if he means funny “ha-ha” or funny “strange.”

And isn’t it funny (strange) that the male half of the Clinton powerhouse, Hillary’s partner and former U.S. President Bill Clinton, was accepted along with a personal envoy days after these comments were made, to have talks about securing Lee and Ling’s release, and that the effort was successful? The stories I’ve seen report that Bill Clinton was acting as a private citizen, and that the talks were only about Lee and Ling, but some have speculated that a former president’s visit was, to Kim Jong-il, an affirmation of his power near the end of his reign.

As atypical a political figure as Hillary Clinton may be, it seems that in this diplomatic situation, a whole lot boiled down to gender and male ego. Some politicos are even speculating that nuclear testing or other issues may have come up in the talks--subjects that fall squarely under Hillary Clinton's authority as secretary of state.

But how was our former Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice, also a woman, talked about by North Korean leaders? In 2005, Rice was described as “no more than an official of the most tyrannical dictatorial state in the world. Such woman bereft of any political logic is not the one to be dealt with by us [sic].” Rice had described North Korea as an “outpost of tyranny.”

Ladybrain Review: Adoption Rights for Mothers

2009-07-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

An Atlantic City, N.J. woman is suing the New Jersey Department of Children and Families for opening her decades-old adoption file, allowing her biological child--a product of rape--to find the mother against her will.

This lawsuit is especially relevant in light of the recent efforts among adoptee-rights groups like Bastard Nation to open up files for adoptees, which advocates see as tantamount to constitutional rights.

I can't fathom what adoptees go through in the way of wondering about their health records and identity, but as a women's rights advocate I am deeply disturbed that such invasions of privacy would be allowed and encouraged. If you read about the Atlantic City, N.J. woman's case, the agency who helped arrange the unwelcome reunion did so without a court order, and took the woman's non-response to a request for contact as a go-ahead and "more or less did what they had to do."

This case mirrors the abortion debate in that, ultimately, pro-life advocates are putting the rights of a fetus above the rights of a woman. Similarly, adoptee rights advocates, although their curiosity is certainly understandable, are putting their rights above the rights of their biological parents' privacy. It's as simple as that.

No woman who has been terrorized by sexual violence should be forced to face the product of that violence, especially after she generously went through with the pregnancy--a serious emotional investment after she had already been through a rape. (Read this woman's account of two unwanted pregancies, one aborted and one carried to term and given up for adoption.) If it were me, I would terminate the pregnancy, no question.

Reviewed today: a movie trailer, and adoption.

2009-07-22T07:26:00.000-07:00

Below, I have embedded the trailer for Orphan.

See. Told you I embedded it. Now I'm going to talk about it. Typically that's what I mean when i say "review." I'm really just going to hold forth, basically, on a given topic. I shall bloviate, if you will. Today, I shall bloviate about this trailer, adoption, and various other things, a few of which are a little depressing.

Trailer first: Did you see that? The trailer is kind of pretty and eerie and scary, and I like at least one of the actors, and the little kids are adorable, except when they're being assholes or devil-children. But it bothers me to see them literally demonizing a little kid. A vulnerable one, at that. I, myself, am adopted. I think adoption is awesome and necessary. I was lucky enough to get adopted by a great family when i was an infant, but for various reasons this doesn't happen for all kids. Kids who are in state-run or religious organization-run homes, or who are in foster care need to be adopted too. Badly.

There's already a lot of fear out there, surrounding adopting older children. Some of the fear and nervousness is legitimate. If you're taking on the responsibility of an older child (almost certainly one with a tumultuous past) without a little nervousness and self-reflection, then you're an idiot. I would hope, though, that the fear would be of the "do I have the resources, emotionally and otherwise, to give this child a good crack at a healthy life?" variety. Not the "will this child turn out to be a possessed demon who kills my biological kids and burns shit down?" variety.

I'm sure in the actual movie it will turn out that this particular child is the product of satan, or some freak medical experiments, or whatever, and thus shouldn't be considered a representation of ALL kids in foster care. But I probly won't see the movie. Most people won't. But I bet a hefty chunk of Americans see the trailer. And all you see in the trailer is a precocious, artistic, slightly awkward, introverted little girl turn out to be a total monster. I was a little girl of the books-for-friends variety, myself, and I was one determined couple away from ending up in the foster system (as is true of many adopted infants). For one thing, I object to the idea that the smart, quirky girl turns out to be a homicidal maniac. It's also frustrating to see a major motion picture capitalize on the fear of an already vulnerable group of people -- Although obviously this is ridiculously common; see Smalls' post, below, regarding Bruno.

I probably would have had a negative gut reaction to this trailer anyway, as an adoptee and a former quirky girl, but these stories from my adopted hometown of DC really bring the point home. Foster kids need permanent homes, and the agencies that try to place them need so many options that they get to be choosy, and they need to watch out for this kids a whole hell of a lot better.

Ladybrain Review: Journalism 101

2009-07-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

As a pseudo-journalist and John Cusack enthusiast, I had to share this video with you.

I've done a fair number of intense interviews for my college paper and for my current job at a non-profit publication, but I've never made quite as much an ass of myself as this dim-wit. Sheesh, she's making us all look bad.

But the clip brings to mind the following notion:

I wonder if my high anxiety when I'm interviewing politicians, organization leaders, z-list celebrities and indie rockers is laced with the idea that, at all costs, I must avoid seeming like a vapid girl, because that's what people might expect of a young woman.

I try to combat this with lots of research and general lack of squeals. If we're all held as examples of our sex in general (and by "we" I obviously mean women) then let's be as brilliant as possible, and celebrate those among us who are examples of what women can be without regard to objectification.

Ladybrain review of: maybe, probably having mono

2009-07-21T07:21:00.000-07:00

I am exhausted. All the time. I've had this lingering sore throat bullshit going on. Swollen tonsils, difficulty swallowing, etc. So, after the near-fruitless adventure of navigating the cesspool that is the American medical system, laced with a good amount of procrastination, I finally got a doctor's appointment. This was so fucking hard to do. So hard. And I work for a non-profit; they practically pay me in insurance. I cannot imagine trying to get any sort of halfway decent medical care while un- or under-insured. I don't know that I'm qualified to write on the travesty that is our healthcare system, so I'll leave that for another day (or a better informed author), and move on to my anecdotal experience.

My doctor, once I could finally find one who would take me, was quite good. And thorough. He had all these adorable, just-finishing-med-school, white-coated helpers. He was patient with them and explained everything he was doing, and politely questioned their conclusions, to make them think things through. My scared looking lab-coat helper was a dude named Luke. Luke was adorable. He also didn't bat an eye when asking me about my dating habits and sexual activity. After hearing my symptoms and the duration, he understandably had an interest in who I've been swapping fluids with. He scrupulously avoided male or female pronouns, and when I decided to just clear the air and tell him I swap saliva with women, he launched into a very matter of fact and rather informative talk on the safe-sex practices best suited for lesbians. Of course, how to keep yourself safe (even if you're a lesbian) should be taught in, you know, schools, before people are likely to be sexually active, as opposed to doctor's offices, to people in their mid-twenties, but that's another rant.

So, in addition to being scheduled for blood work, they checked to see if my spleen was enlarged (apparently if it is mono, I've just been BEGGING for a ruptured spleen by continuing to box for the last two months), and had me do this crazy EKG, breathing mask, riding a bike test. To see if I have blood vessel constriction around my heart. This is apparently rather common, and presents as fatigue. If someone my age, in good shape, comes in to a good doctor complaining of two months of illness and fatigue, they take it rather seriously, it seems. So I left the doctor's office covered in EKG pads, looking like a robot, or a riveted pair of jeans (the clinician said she suggested that I take them off in the shower due to the strong adhesive. they were so visible through my shirt that i ripped them off at the bus stop).

So here's the long and short of it, everybody. Mono: it sucks. Final verdict.

It made me realize something, as I was dragging my ass home from the doctor's office, looking and feeling like I'd been shot at and missed, and shit at and hit. It was this: Being a woman takes a lot of energy. I got street harassed three or four times on my way home. This is common in my neighborhood. But yesterday, I didn't even have the energy to flip them off. I didn't even have the energy to debate with myself over whether or not flipping them off was a good idea. I felt too exhausted to brush my hair, when i got out of the shower. Shaving my legs was out of the question. I didn't have a snappy comeback when I was riding my bike to work this morning and a car decided I was too slow off the line after a stop sign, and thus prevented him from making a right turn, for about .4 seconds. He called me a stupid bitch, and I just rolled on, barely perturbed.

Normally, my armor from all of the things that make me feel shitty for existing while female is 50 percent umbrage/feminist awareness and 50 percent compromise and compliance trying to fly under the radar (hence the leg shaving). But my recent exhaustion and near-apathy has been a kind of armor, too. A tempting, easy kind. But here's the thing: it SHOULD piss me off to be called a stupid bitch for basically no reason. It SHOULD piss me off that I can't walk around my own neighborhood without being cat-called and hissed at. And the people doing these things should know that it's entirely unacceptable.

But it's just so exhausting sometimes.