Nothing Says Love Like a Bullet in the Brain

A charge often lobbed against feminists is that they go looking for things to be upset about or somehow cherry pick the sexist and misogynist examples in pop culture on purpose. The problem with this line of reasoning is that you don’t have to seek out evidence of lady hating in order to be confronted with it. In fact, even when you attempt to make a selection clear of a potential for such content, lo and behold it turns up on schedule just like the trains in the Netherlands. I put From Paris with Love in my ScreenClick queue sure that I’d only get at worst a clichéd buddy-cop movie, with otherwise lots of gunplay and action scenes, plus a peek at what Travolta does with his own bald pate instead of yet another Eddie Munster lace-front. (He seems liberated by it and should really stick with the au natural. Willis and Statham prove the bald virile type onscreen).

Yep, I can dig the genre with fare such as Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy in 48 Hours, the Diehard franchise, Turner and Hooch, Penn & Duvall in Colors, or in the television series The Wire with McNulty and Bunk among other paired characters on The Job. The buddy cop dynamic can be great fun. In the case of From Paris with Love, audiences are shafted with an exercise in misogyny. Jonathan Rhys Meyers plays James Reece, the straight guy in the pairing with Travolta’s renegade Charlie Wax. Reece lives with a fashion designer Caroline (Kasia Smutniak). All he seems to want from her is dinner on the table and hot sex, the usual feed-and-fuck mainstay of the demands upon women in hetero relationships. When it turns out that she may not be who she seems, Reece blubbers that he doesn’t know any of her friends and family or anything about her life. How could he have missed glaring evidence of her guilt, he whinges.

The idea that he’s living with a stranger, someone he doesn’t know, fails to be of pressing concern until her culpability in terrorism becomes apparent. This sentiment was echoed not long ago on an episode of Mad Men when Don Draper was asked what women wanted, to which he issued the terse ‘who cares?’ in response. The assumption for guys choked with gendered entitlement is that women are not worth knowing. Don’t trouble a dude with the messy business of relationship maintenance, learning the narrative of a partner’s life, hopes for the future, worries or social network. Like many guys, Reece’s operating from his privilege not to be inconvenienced by a woman. Women should be accommodating and fuckable and then quiet about their own life and needs. Caroline fails to claim her own agenda even in her rogue politics. She’s doing it to please a thug. Not only does the plot devolve to the inevitable scene where he has to ice the bitch, but Reece delivers the bullet between her eyes after a rambling speech about how all that matters is that he loves her. Nothing says love like a clean head shot, afterall.

No one has to look for evidence; the stink slaps itself on everything.

Drama in Dublin Bay

Verily, the stretch of sand in the Dublin Bay from Booterstown to Dun Laoghaire is as familiar to me as angry rants are to Mel Gibson, what with me serving the canine masters thrice daily. Let me tell you how rare it can be to see folks even at high summer, let alone so many on a chilly day in September, which is fine, really, because it means the pair can’t get in much trouble. Today when we were entering the beach behind the Booterstown DART station, I noticed a guard running up the stairs in a hurry. Once they were on sand, off leash and in pursuit of birds, I noticed Gardai fanning out behind me. Six men. Naturally I thought they were coming after me to haul in the juvenile delinquents who share my bed. If you know the bay there, you’ll recall that it’s not quite even in its grading. Therefore there are gullies and rivulets running from the sea even at low tide, making it difficult to negotiate without wellies. I watched three guards walk through water that was shin high. Ouch, I thought. That’s nasty to have your shoes and feet soaked through at this time of year. They exited the beach at the staircase next to the martello tower at the end of Blackrock Park. We followed right behind. There was a man in his skivvies across from the stairs, just vest and pants with his arms crossed in obvious discomfort. He looked to be in his early thirties. Surrounded by guards, all I could hear were snippets but ‘robbed’ was one of them. No other clothes, shoes, possessions. He looked so vulnerable. Listen, guy, I’m sorry that happened and that so many folks had to witness your distress. That sucks big time. I hope they catch the person and that you were given a ride home.

Double Standards extend to Demonic Possession

When it comes to viral marketing strategies, the recent campaign where the girl turns into a possessed demon to scare the bejeebus out of the dudes looking for a wank on Chatroulette ranks as my personal fave. I tip my hat to pulling a good scare on the porn hounds. Other than that tiny amusement, the possessed girl onscreen is a motif more skewed and corrupt than Cheney’s moral compass. You don’t have to be a Spinster Aunt in Texas in order to discern the trope as a sign of serious misogyny. Evil girls from Rhoda Penmark, Rosemary Woodhouse and later Regan MacNeil were just the start of a trend of females as the personification or conduit of evil on celluloid. Horror movies are part of the cultural backlash against the gains made by feminists, a rise in ladies spewing green chunks grew in frequency as a reaction against claims made to women’s desire for social, political and economic equality. Firestarter, Carrie, Ghostbusters, Ginger Snaps, Constantine, The Possessed, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, The Haunting of Molly Hartley, Jennifer’s Body, Drag Me to Hell, Paranormal Activity and the Last Exorcism all squarely hinged on demonic females. Add Hit Girl to the list since she’s a brainwashed zombie who functions as an instrument of death. Aside from the repellent view that the vagina-bearers are empty vessels waiting to be filled by phantasm if not peen, these possessed females serve as a repository and reminder for how much our culture hates and fears women.

If we examine the small number of films involving male characters in the throes of demonic possession, there’s a clear difference. The double standards applied to gender fail to fade even when it’s a question of a spectre from hell taking up corporeal residence. Whether it’s Damien the Omen, Rosemary’s Baby, the dude in Amityville Horror or the rest; when male characters are agents of el Diablo, they invariably are invulnerable forces of destruction. We don’t see their bodies getting pummelled unless it’s that doll Chucky. Rosemary, for example puts down the cleaver to coo over her demon child instead of hacking him up. Boys are always prized and valuable, no matter their paternity with satan. In the unwatchable Ghostrider, Nic Cage plays Johnny Blaze who trades his soul to satan for superhero status for shit’s sake. Ash in the Evil Dead series loses only a hand to the evil spirits with the rest of his faculties and resources in check while the women turn into demonic hags.

When girls and women become possessed it’s used as an opportunity for audiences to see them beaten or overtly sexualised in an exercise to satiate culture’s deeply ingrained misogyny. I must have written at least half a dozen times here about the trend for seeing women’s bodies terrorised either in outright pornography or else in the horror genre. As if it wasn’t stomach churning enough to see Hit Girl shot and beaten by middle aged men, there’s an eye-bulging scene in Case 39 where parents stuff a little girl in an oven, secure it with duct tape and then turn on the flames. The modern Grimm’s fairy tale won’t let us exempt girls from brutalised treatment onscreen.

Sometimes the misogyny extends beyond the basic belief that the female is the more deadly of the species and draws some extra-special twisted messages about women’s subhuman status. Take for instance Case 39, a cautionary tale about the misgivings of liberal do-goodism. Renee Zellweger plays a naive social worker with a messianic complex who gets her comeuppance by saving a girl who is not a victim of abuse but possessed by an evil spirit. The film tells us it’s better to not get involved because lordy, the child may turn out to be a bloodthirsty demon.
The only reason to watch Case 39 is to see the demon spawn call Bradley Cooper’s character facile and smug. Talk about nailing character traits on an off screen. Also, the Chinese hold a proverb which measures a person’s intellect by how high one grasps a pair of chopsticks. Zellweger has her fingers wrapped at the bottom near the tips. Enough said of this rancid little film.

Five Strikes and You're Out

1. Crap tattoos

2. Adolescent jewelry

3. Tight distressed faded denim

4. V-neck showing meavage

5. A leather cowboy hat!

Might as well pass me a cuppa saltpeter.

I Would Cut a Bitch for These

Since high heels cripple my lower back I'm not a big shoe gal and will easily snub the 'it' model of the season. Only holy crap do the Balenciaga colour block platforms for a/w '10 have me in a swoon. They are more Modernist art than footwear.
This Burberry navy zip coat also has me similar covet-mode.
You could wear this until threadbare without stepping out of style.
The prices are hideous.
*sigh*

I'm a Sucker for a Cute Face

The husband sent this to me.

I suppose as a reminder of how adorable they were.

Something to recall when they take turns waking me at 1, 3 and 5am.

The After Life Better Offer More than Pasta

One of the long-running jokes in ‘Defending Your Life’ (1991) is that when you're dead, you can eat as much as you want without worrying about weight gain, a concept which Meryl Streep’s character takes to with abandon. In the scene above, she’s thrilled to be served 3 lbs. of pasta in a cream sauce with broccoli smothered in cheese on the side. She wants to eat her way through the great beyond. Dudes such as Albert Brooks hold dear this hoary chestnut that the only thing that stops women from putting fork to mouth is the fear of ballooning against the beauty norm. Honestly, I’m the opposite; my dream of an ideal existence post-mortal coil would be to never have to eat again, what with the hassle of shopping for comestibles, then all the preparation, mastication, clean up and digestion in a never ending cycle. To be rid of such a charge would be paradise. The husband, now on his own in Toronto, had an epiphany that he eats too much in our last Skype session. Not because his caloric intake is excessive, but in the recognition that keeping a body going entails too much hassle.

So Meryl, fabulous as you are in this and every role, I’ve got to say not every woman considers the bottomless plate of pasta as nirvana.

Misogyny Lasts from Cradle to Grave

Trust the Daily Hate Mail to report on curios from culture's long-standing misogyny.

This charming 'wife tamer' from the mid-19th century channels the way in which woman hating dominates a lifespan.

When the wife is giving out, simply lock her up in this cradle-coffin hybrid and hit the pub.

Yack.

And by all means, skip the comments over there.

Noir Gone Wrong

The exact moment Nicolas Cage’s career took a turn towards woe betides for the viewer occurred during his desperate, hyperbolic, scenery chewing performance in the 1995 remake of the classic noir ‘Kiss of Death.’ Two years earlier he delivered an inspired part in the little known noir ‘Red Rock West.’ The problem is that even though everyone loves the noir genre, a production can go tits up for any number of reasons. You can already consider my money down that the new version of ‘Mildred Pierce’ is sure to blow chunks, because she may be an Oscar winner, but Kate Winslet could never hope to fill Joan Crawford’s platform pumps and shoulder pads. Crawford may have played the martyred momma in the role, except the audience had no doubt that she could have wrung that little bitch’s neck whenever the mood struck. Mildred was never really Vida’s doormat.

Folks lazily assume that genre productions are easy to assemble based upon a set pattern of elements in plot and character. It’s not like you can conjure up one third femme fatale to equal parts gumshoe and a frame and end up with a brilliant film (or book for that matter). For all the hundreds of films released in the noir heyday (1944-1955) many of them are tedious exercises in stereotyped static characters and hole-laden plots. No less is true of the neo noir cycle. For every ‘Last Seduction’ there are reams of celluloid as stinky as Belacqua Shuah’s preferred luncheon cheese, just as with ‘Kiss of Death,’ the supposed star vehicle for an insufferable David Caruso. After Cage channelled Dennis Hopper in ‘Blue Velvet’ for his inhaler affectation, the list of predictable lemons followed, such as ‘City of Angels’ (an embarrassing remake of ‘Wings of Desire’); a creepy ‘8mm’ look at snuff films; the mindless ‘Gone in 60 Seconds’; what the heck was up with ‘Snake Eyes,’ ‘Ghost Rider,’ or that trilogy of ‘National Treasure’ films? If it could get any worse, he’s slated for the lead in a film adaptation of ‘The Courtship of Eddie’s Father,’ a forty year-old American television series which displayed some really ignorant racist ideas about how demure and servile Asian women are. All I’m saying is avoid the noir Kiss of Death path, you actor types.

Like what the hell was Salma Hayek doing in the one-note psycho Latina role in ‘Lonely Hearts’? Not only does the character demand that the limp love interest Jared Leto kill in order to prove his love for her, but when she goes down on a cop to get the pair out of scrutiny at a traffic stop, she’s branded ‘crazy,’ ‘unstable,’ and fucked in the head for shrugging off a little fellatio. In this picture, Hayek is stuck in the Hollywood default position of being a crazy bitch simply because she has a vagina, a role Glen Close epitomised in ‘Fatal Attraction,’ a shitty, misogynist Reagan-era noir. 'Lonely Hearts' veers more towards bad comedy than nail-biter. I spent most of the run time wondering which wig rated higher on the ridiculous scale, Jared Leto’s in costume or John Travolta’s fluffy, glue-rooted locks. When Scott Caan’s (sorry I mistakenly said Speedman earlier) idiot character called James Gandolfini’s detective ‘a sack of meat,’ he was extending inordinately keen powers of observation rather than just slagging off a colleague. Gandolfini carries so much flesh that his lungs labour to draw a full breath aross the concrete-heavy chest. The guy sounds like he has too much gabagool congealed in his blood to take in an easy bit of air.

‘Lonely Hearts’ reaches for significance around two dead women in the bathtub, one Travolta’s wife onscreen, and the other a victim of the serial stalkers of women who write to the lonely hearts club. None of this works. There’s no joy in the dialogue, performances, plot. Even the 1940s fashion looks imitative, mere cheap reproductions hashed together in a rush.

Avoid, I say.

Great Wardrobe for a Bad Actor

Evan Rachel Wood plays a petulant vampire queen more camp than even Harvey Fierstein would have matched in his youth. Her bodywork is limited to eye-rolling, brow arching and sharp elbows. To perhaps offer recompense to the audience, Sophie Anne takes every scene in True Blood decked out in the most divine ensembles from the 40s and 50s. Take her widow's weeds in mourning for Russell. Holy crap is this dress an inspired mash up of Bette Davis, Betty Draper by way of Betsy Johnson. The shawled collar, nipped waist, flared skirt with the red embellishment, topped with the gloves and hat equal aesthetic perfection.

This is how you grin fuck the guy who forced your hand in marriage.

Roll on season 4 and keep the yummy clothes coming.

I Bought a Hipster Bag?

During a transit strike when I was doing the coursework for the 'ol peehachedee, I selected one of these Chrome messenger bags to haul stacks around to and from campus.

2003 or 2004ish.

Although I enjoyed the car seat buckle strap design, it really did not accomodate breasts, since it tended to smash them and poke a hole in my sternum, so I turned it over to the husband after a semester.

He still uses it when he takes the bike out for errands.

Now what-the-what is this marketing campaign advertising the bags as 'back to school' ready, packed with ice and PBR tallboys?

Even in 1999 this would have induced eye rolls with the Vice crowd.

That's it kids, get ahead in your expensive programme by drinking crap beer.

Yeesh.

Sarah Silverman Wins me Over

Like many women with an eye cast for the next great dress to come along, I was an athletic tomboy as a child. In a game of kick ball on the block one day when I was ten, I tagged out a boy from a few houses up. I walked to school every day with his sisters Kathy and Reenie. Patrick was 7 at the time I called him out in a set of rules for a game I no longer remember. His response to my taking him out of the game was to throw a tantrum and then a punch that landed square on my chin. I recall the embarrassment at having to report in the emergency room that a mere seven year old had struck a blow that in turn fractured my jaw. There was no gendered implication in my perception of the event, only chagrin that a first-grader had done the damage. Of course from an adult perspective one worries that he grew up to become a champion wife-beater as one may with such an early predilection for raising a fist to a girl. What I remember about staying home in recovery most was the day when his father stood behind him on our porch while he rang the bell and then proceeded to beat the crap out of Patrick for my benefit. The performance did put me into a fit of painful giggles, even if my adult self can rationalise how using more violence on a violent boy probably didn’t help produce a good citizen. I remembered the father last night while reading Sarah Silverman’s The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee. The combination of her childhood memories of nightly emissions mixed with her awe upon getting hired on staff and Saturday Night Live could have been the trigger factor to have me recall Patrick and his father. After the man delivered a beating on his son and told him never to raise his hand to a girl again, I experienced an instant bonding moment with the man. While I waited in the living room for Kathy and Reenie to pull on their coats or grab their books every Monday morning, I would talk about the funny bits from the last episode of SNL with their father. His own kids were in bed early for 9am Mass and not permitted to watch, but my own ability to be quiet and unobtrusive won me the freedom to stay up late and watch adult programming such as SNL, Second City and Monty Python when I was still a pipsqueak. I was just as surprised as Silverman to find the crew full of Harvard snobs. I expected to hear it was a boy’s club, just not a really rich boy’s club.

Even though I’m not a fan of Sarah Silverman’s ‘dickface’ repertoire which boils down to acting like a 14 year-old boy in hoodie drag, I did relish her truncated life story. Silverman says she's never been raped or abused, except she goes on to tell about a group of boys who caught her alone in the cafeteria and force-fed her cold cuts because she was a vegetarian. It was a horrifying gender-based assault at any rate. The sole regrettable chapter revolves around her mewling defence over making a joke on Conan’s show that used the word ‘chink.’ You can’t cover your ass by declaring your audience too sensitive, clueless or humourless. Own that shit and move on. I think she wants the liberty to say stuff for shock value without being responsible for it other than laying claim to satire. The rest of the memoir is funny, relatable and succeeds in creating a favourable view of someone whose work I tend to avoid. That’s no mean feat, to turn someone around from indifference to the cash register for a sale. Well done, Silverman.

Chelsea Handler: Lap Cat of Patriarchy

Folks harbour a popular misconception about there being a sisterhood among women, as if vagina-bearers operate under a rote ‘you go, girl’ mentality in their interactions with other women. In reality, the sisterhood is more fabled than unicorns or vampires. In a culture which regards everything female as second-rate and subordinate, always already less than, girls cop on pretty quickly that anything coded feminine or female is silly, shallow and less cool than what the boys do or have. Some women learn that they can win approval and popularity by going on the defensive against other women. I’ve come to regard this class of women as lap cats of patriarchy because they participate in culture’s business of putting down and testifying to how awful women are to behold. Plenty of women make a career and get paid for this commentary, such as every woman in front of the camera at Fox News.

A lap cat’s arsenal ranges from gossip and talking trash, taking pleasure from cruelty towards women, slut-shaming, sabotage by croissant, and the ever popular ‘body snarking’ as they phrase it over at Jezebel. Women who brow-beat other women generally seem to play the ‘I’m one of the guys ’card more often than not. The motive is a mix of the desire for male approval and the longing for release from an inferior position, in a bid for exceptional stature otherwise known as being one of the ‘good ones.’ There are palpable rewards for women who act as lap cats of patriarchy and do the business of reminding women of their loathsome status.

Take Chelsea Handler, the American best-selling author and late night show host with a considerable audience. Handler’s the new version of Samantha Jones telling women that they can have a better life if they can mimic traditionally male behaviour such as hard drinking and promiscuity. The new Rollingstone cover celebrates her 'slutty' persona. The problem is that Handler wants it both ways. She wants to be able to trade on a slutty persona in her books or on the programme, but instead of reclaiming the pejorative in a contest to culture’s arbitrary estimations of women’s sexuality, she routinely lays the charge of slattern against other women. Just recently she referred women on a reality show as ‘tasteless sluts.’ So it’s bad to be a slut unless you’re Chelsea Handler? She makes a sex tape, poses for Playboy and boasts about her conquests but chastises other women for doing the same thing. Talk about duplicity.

I’ve taken more than one attempt to watch ‘Chelsea Lately,’ especially when a guest from ‘True Blood’ was scheduled. At least half a dozen times I could not watch more than a few minutes, appalled by the glee with which she skewers women, stages cat fights and portrays women as irrational beasts. There’s no limit to the mars and venus mythology and stereotypes in the attacks she wages against women. Handler can’t muster any substantive comedy about women, as say Sandra Bernhard, Jeanine Garofalo or Kathy Griffin create. Chelsea Handler’s affectless shark-eyed delivery, which other critics mistakenly label deadpan, relies heavily on attacking women just for being women. There’s also the way she uses ‘chocolate’ to refer to African Americans and ‘nugget’ as a description of little people as evidence of a raging mean streak.

Nancy Franklin’s recent profile of the comedian in The New Yorker criticised Handler’s act as too self-centred. The real problem is that she’s too self-delusional. Just like her predecessor Joan Rivers, a certain type of comedian are convinced if they savage other women on stage, they’ll be exempt from the culture’s antipathy for women. Each time a woman tears down another in public it’s frequently for male benefit. I’ve done it. We’ve all done it. We need to stop. The easy thing to do is talk trash about women. The truly subversive, daring tactic is not to participate in the ritual gender humiliation.

Chelsea Handler’s not funny. Hating on women may bring her a paycheck and fame, but the presence of a navigable moral compass becomes less certain. Handler’s brand of comedy is Mean Girls on television.