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.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Social Network: A Ladybrain Review
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.
Feminist Grade: C
Overall Movie Grade: A
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Other Guys: A Ladybrain Review
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
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
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Speaking in Tongues: A Ladybrain Review
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.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Is Cheerleading a Sport?
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.
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Toy Story 3: A Ladybrain Review
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
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.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Anti-Rape Condom Debuts in South Africa
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.
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.
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