Recently I posted about how lots of women try to become "one of the boys" as a strategy to get ahead in patriarchy. Since the state of being female is reviled and shunned, lest any taint of it disarm dudeliness, plenty of women walk around with the point of view of a middle aged white dude. We all receive a steady stream of "what a man wants" since birth, so the psychological transfer barely even registers. Pick up a newspaper, turn on the television, open most books, or browse the interwebs and you get a good dose of dude nation, where its all about the menz, even when it appears to be directed specifically at women, such as the Lifetime network or something similar, it's still a predictable narrative, narrowed to a limited set of men are________ and women are _________.
You can isolate cues about gender norms everywhere, telling you how you should behave and what to expect your life to resemble. Women internalize all the stuff about manhood alongside the lessons for muliebrity, which often lends us the ability to come up with compelling male characters. Take a look at what an international media darling Zadie Smith became for "White Teeth," a bestseller about two middle aged dudes. It's profitable to make men the centre of your work. Or, as another bestseller instructs, "Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man."

The NYT offers the most recent example of a woman making a name for herself by making it all about the men with the feature "She's a Director Who's Just Another Dude." Lynn Shelton's recent film "Humpday," premiered:

"At Sundance, where the film made its debut in January, the film’s pitch alone — two buddies reunite a decade out of college only to find themselves agreeing to shoot an arty porn flick on a kind of regressive, Dionysian dare — hit the festival’s sweet spot, and not by accident."

The NYT attempts to class up the premise with the allusion to mythology. Of course a woman who makes a "bromance" film where two scumbags make a porno will fill the theatre seats. Rule number one of being "one of the boys" instructs a woman to laugh when men engage in sexist jokes and to never call them on bad behaviour. Shelton sounds like an enthusiastic cheerleader for dudes. Or, as the author quips, "Ms. Shelton has created an exploration of the male ego and the passionate rigors of platonic, dude-on-dude love." It's sure to be a hit. You know it's bad when they report that she's being called the "female Apatow."
Exalt unquestioned male privilege in all its excess and you will make some bank.

Her credentials as "one of the boys" also receives confirmation: "Mr. Duplass credited Ms. Shelton’s facility with actors, enthusiasm for the working process and, tangentially, her greater affinity for men: 'You know those girls who are closer with dudes, in general? She’s got a little bit of that going on, so that obviously plays into it.'" Men are the centre of the universe, and the women who recognize that will find success.
We also get assurance that Shelton appropriately assumes the supporting role to the altogether more important funnymen; " 'But Lynn is not the one cracking jokes, she’s the one laughing hardest.'" Women shouldn't outshine the men or hold the spotlight, just laugh and cheer on the men.

Miller High Life's "Innovations" ad series acts as the gender police to remind dudes what they need to do in order to be real menz. You prove your masculinity by drinking shitty beer, for starters, none of that limp-wristed crafted micro-brews or imports allowed. If it's possible to locate a beer even more of a piss-drink than Budweiser, it'd be the High Life, even if it's Da Mayor's brew of choice.

Teh menz don't cross their legs like those effete intellectual types. Instead they spread their legs apart as far as possible to have easy access to ball scratching and to occupy the maximum physical space. They must also think it lays the groundwork for a sexual overture. It's like "yeah, baby, getta loada my peen." Real menz shun sophistication because it would make them gay. Totally.

Keep your hands clenched around a beer, in a fist or on your balls. Real menz never allow a pinky extension. Why, all the testosterone would drain from their bodies in an instant. Any sign of manners is a sure-fired de-sexer for menz. Your dick will fall right off.

Finally, real menz refuse to follow any fashion trends or resemble any of that super scary metrosexual stuff. Again, that's for the gays and the chicks.

Real menz care nothing about clothes and walk around in hideous, colourless neutral tones.

Fashion is for pussies.

Thus concludes the lesson in gender mythology.

My first thought this morning was that I had to empty the green bin of the organic waste that's been rotting for two weeks since the strike began. Plus the meat and bits that were stinking up the freezer.
Le sigh.
Downstairs, I glumly told Mr. M what I'd be doing on the way to the market.
"I already took it this morning when I was out with the dogs. I packed it up into my hiking backpack."

Reader, I had a friend who used to gloat about how often her husband brought her flowers or little gifts with the tacit implication that my husband wasn't as thoughtful.
You know what?
Shlepping a shitload of garbage for more than two miles in the pricey hiking gear resonates as a sincere romantic gesture. Fuck the flowers and the candy, I'd rather have an odious task taken off my hands.

"Now I'm feeling like the germaphobe you are. I've already washed my hands three times."
That's love, people.

John Waters ranks as the king of Irish menz, also known as dudes who bemoan and lament the loss of unchecked male privilege.

In his most recent elegy for the waning of dude nation (the uncontested authority of church and state in classic patriarchal form), he stretches the example of an airport queue as a metaphor for contemporary Irish ills. It's pretty lame, but let's parse it out anyway.

Waters observes a man jumping a long queue in Dublin's airport, who is then caught by an employee and sent to the back of the line. Most folks would say well done to the staff members. Not Waters, though. He aligns himself with the rogue attempt to sidestep civil manners and custom in order to get ahead. The reflexive insistence that you come first above all others remains part and parcel of the gender privilege instilled in and reserved for the penis bearers. It's a level of expectation built up that makes you say "screw everyone else" and jump the queue. Waters doesn't place any importance on politeness or the shared out empathy that maintains a fair spirit within the queue. Instead, he regards calling out those choked with entitlement when they jump the queue in terms of "moralistic tyranny." If you check his privilege, it's tyranny. You're just like that Hitler fella.
Give me a motherfucking break, dude:

"We used not to be like this. We had lives. We did not guard every single bureaucratic regulation with a jealous fury. Once, we might have seen someone jumping a queue and smiled at his brass neck or just thought that perhaps he faced some urgent circumstance.
Once, Ireland was world famous for being a place where everything was not reduced to “ethics” and “equality” and rules."

His placement of ethics, equality and rules in quotes speak volumes; it says that ethics and equality don't mesh with his conservative and retrograde worldview.
He's arguing that only dudes should have agency and fuck everyone else.
He locates a crisis in an egalitarian society where everyone has a voice, a mentalist view of the highest order. Even wacko menz like Bill O'Reilly will at least pay lip service to the merits of social equality, even if everything else he says contradicts it.
When Waters claims that standing up against privilege is "turning us into moralistic bloodhounds who sniff the air for the scent of sinners," he's describing the past, where his moral compass is stuck. How dare he admonish folks for speaking up for themselves.
Social parity scares the shit out of John Waters because he'd much rather retain the privilege to behave without consequence.

*Spoilers*

Kate Winslet's April Wheeler implores her husband Frank (Baby Stewie, I mean Leo DiCaprio) to leave their life in suburban New York and move to Paris, by telling him they should leave because he doesn't understand "what he is." She coos and soothes him by saying "you're the most beautiful and wonderful thing in the world. You're a man."

I choked on my tea.

This early scene bears the crux of the film's point of view, which receives further emphasis in the last shot, the closeup of Howard Givings (Richard Easton) turning down his hearing aid to silence his wife (Kathy Bates), who had been prattling on about how the Wheelers failed as suitable homeowners.

"Revolutionary Road" alleges that women have nothing to say worth hearing.

Tune the bitches out.

It's all about the menz.

There's no lasting spark of a feminist critique of "the problem that has no name" within the feminine mystique of 1950s suburbia.

In the end, women are dead or silenced.

First, April's proposed rebellion where the family move to Paris so that they can live authentically revolves completely around Frank's self-discovery, as she aspires only to working as a secretary so that her husband might figure out what he wants to do with his life. The plan's all about him. Her speech about wanting to save him from toiling at a job he hates was fellating the patriarchy for fuck's sake. She doesn't mention herself or what she wants, other than to earn the family income by serving male diplomats. Way to think big and reach for the stars! The life April envisions in France seems hardly changed from the one she has now, so it's difficult to accept why she's so heavily invested.

Second, after a big promotion lures Frank away from the move to Paris, he gets to tell his wife suddenly that she needs a psychiatrist for getting so wrapped up in an immature and unrealistic plan. Money and power hold more sway than a romantic dream, and instead of admitting it, Frank cunningly pathologizes his wife. April's rebellious streak channels itself into a limp suicide. She doesn't get the life she wants; instead, the abortion kills her as the last failure among many. Frank gets to tell her more than once that she's a lousy actress and that she's a bad mother because she doesn't want the third child. April's characterization spins out as an unfocused desperation, an inarticulate longing for what's beyond her scope or ability.

We don't get to see her do anything beyond bleed out after settling in to a Stepford Wife demeanor at breakfast.

There's only punishment waiting for women who break with convention.

"Revolutionary Road" borrows a page from the patriarchal playbook.

Also, the idea that you would host a crazy man twice just to please your realtor insults the viewer. He's mad but so insightful! He will provide the catalyst for the plot's emotional peaks and valleys!

That character had to be one of the most artificial plot devices I've seen in ages.

Check out this clever ad campaign from the Bloom agency in Dublin for Pat the Baker's sliced bread with the tagline "Toast of Ireland."

It's smart and creative and doesn't resort to the cheap sexism deeply ingrained in the advertising industry.

The trailer for "Couples Retreat" ran before Mann's movie yesterday.

I'm guessing no less than one thousand tired gender stereotypes will make their way into it. The horny husband and frigid wife dynamic is already a lock. She's a nag, he's non-communicative. Blah, blah, blah.

The premise makes no sense at all. If you knew that your friends were thinking about divorce, would you want to be locked into an island vacation with them?
Hell no.
Also:
Someone needs take a pin and see if they can deflate Vince Vaughn's bloated face.
And is Jason Bateman in absolutely every movie due for the next year?
*Yawn*

I'm a Sephora devotee.
Today I just popped in to pick up some sponges and walked out with the palette on the right.
The store's giving them away when you have 500 points on your "Beauty Insider" card.
Most likely I won't use half the shit in there ( such as blush, which I've never had on my face).
But it looks pretty.

"Public Enemies" will most likely rake it in hand over fist.

*No Spoilers*

It's not just an eminently well-shot film comprised of many beautiful scenes and images, Michael Mann's film bears gravitas about the persons and events involved in the foundation of the FBI. Those savage fuckers set the precedent for men like Rumsfeld and Cheney and the torture at Abu Ghraib. J. Edgar Hoover and his men had no regard for the rule of law.

There's a great scene after Dillinger (Johnny Depp) meets Billie Frechette (Marion Cotillard) and takes her to a fancy restaurant. She interrupts his romantic overture to point out that they're being stared at because the patrons are not used to seeing a woman in a $3 dress seated among them. As he escorts her out we get a detailed look at the frock that drapes with modern elegance. She makes the other women look positively last century in their unyielding black lace.

I do believe I would put a hurt on someone to get the dress (although not in red. Teal, please).

As the camera follows behind Dillinger and his men walking up the marble steps to a bank they are there to rob, their wool coats balloon out almost like the capes of super heroes. It's a gorgeous effect coupled with their sharp fedoras and rifles. Mann's giving us iconic gangster-sexy here.

No surprise, Depp is beyond dreamy. His affable robber tells a dude in one bank to put his withdrawl away because he's there for the bank's money, not his.

All class. He cowers Christian Bale with talent in the scene they share. Bale does absolutely nothing for me as an actor. He's creepy and wooden and his nose irks me.

I didn't recognize Billy Crudup in the role of Hoover. His inflected accent sounds exactly like dudes in so many films of the era. He's dead on in delivery.

Giovanni Ribisi, Jason Clarke and Stephen Graham all struck a strong presence.

Lili Taylor show up briefly as a small town sheriff and also has an authentic performance.

Brilliant film.

"Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" was unwatchable.
After forty minutes I had to turn it off.
The screeching, caterwauling hyperbolic "ladies" were about as appealing to me as curdled milk.
I know this is a huge cult favourite that I somehow missed until last night.
Not my cup of tea.
It's as if they took the very worst stereotypes attributed to women in the mars and venus mythology and then decided to make them writ large in the flesh.
They were vain, shallow, catty, gossipy, competitive, narcissistic.
No thank you.

Here's a portion of my feminist education.

On an episode in the first season of "TrueBlood," Tara (Rutina Wesley) was acting informally as Jason's legal counsel to negotiate his rights when he was a murder suspect. When he asks how she knew the law, Tara says that she'd read books, and that school was a matter of paying white folks to read to you. She just cut out the middleman and did the reading herself.

Simple, right?

You don't need to be enrolled in university to read and study.