Mission: Impossible – Conquering the Smurfette Principle

StarGazer

        The full-length trailer for the fifth Mission: Impossible movie, now sporting the not-at-all-laughable subtitle of Rogue Nation (at least it’s not Dawn of Justice or Ragnarok?), popped up online Monday, and the world got yet another opportunity to gawk at Tom Cruise’s commitment to jaw-dropping and likely ill-advised stunts with a mixture of bemusement, exasperation and awe. While I have little doubt that the film’s action scenes will be thrilling, an ideal spectacle for blockbuster season, I would be infinitely more interested in it if 1) Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol helmer Brad Bird returned to the directing chair and 2) more importantly, if Paula Patton were not conspicuously absent from this sequel, while Cruise, Jeremy Renner, Simon Pegg and Ving Rhames will all reprise their roles.

        Even if it is for harmless scheduling reasons, this means we have yet another major movie boasting a single major female character (newcomer Rebecca Ferguson) in an ensemble otherwise consisting of all guys. Yes, we’re talking about an action franchise whose primary draw has always been its over-the-top gadgets and stunt work, so it’s obviously not surprising that Rogue Nation, at least based off the trailer, will be extremely dude-centric. However, this tokenism and the trailer’s heavy use of the male gaze suggest that the movie and, by extension, the franchise as a whole, isn’t especially interested in women – either in terms of portraying them as more than eye candy or in attracting us as an audience.

  

I couldn’t get a non-blurry screengrab, but in case you’re wondering, Rebecca Ferguson is about to snap this guy’s neck with her legs, and I’m so here for that.

  

 This, not so much.

The Leftovers and Staring into the Abyss

WordMaster

            The Leftovers is not feel-good television. Initial reviews described HBO’s new drama as “some of the most desolate, despairing television on air”, “like a French arthouse series, but sadder” and “a show that will make some of its viewers want to slit their wrists” – and those are the positive ones. Perhaps realizing that waxing poetic about a show’s potential to rouse thoughts of suicide isn’t the most effective strategy for convincing people to watch it, many of these critics go out of their way to point out that The Leftovers “isn’t for everyone,” a qualification that seems not only unnecessary (nothing is “for everyone”) but also counterintuitive. If you like a piece of art, why discourage others from giving it a shot? Since when were critics responsible for accommodating audience opinions rather than simply articulating and trusting their own?

            More to the point, though, framing the show’s sorrowful mood as a caveat is like saying, “Mad Men is good, but there’s so much talking”. You’re disowning something essential to the work in question, turning its greatest strength into a negative. Precisely what gives The Leftovers its power is its commitment to exploring human emotions in all their raw messiness, its refusal to settle for false uplift and easy answers. To be sure, some people may find it too unpleasant to watch, and that’s fair enough, but for me (and, judging by the reviews, many others), it’s not a ponderous, soul-crushing exercise in mental fortitude so much as a pitch-perfect falsetto, hitting that elusive sweet note with such exquisite precision it stings. In it, I found something I hadn’t known I was yearning for: a complex, heartfelt portrait of loss.

The moment I fell in love

Death, Taxes and Community

WordMaster

            Yesterday was not a particularly good day. First, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby, essentially stating that corporations are allowed to refuse birth control coverage for female employees due to religious objections. Then, Noah Berlatsky, a writer I’d previously respected, published an article in The Atlantic arguing that Orange Is the New Black doesn’t pay enough attention to men, despite the fact that the show is set specifically in a women’s prison and therefore has no reason to represent male convicts (if anything, I wish it didn’t care so much about its male characters, but that’s another discussion entirely). And as if that wasn’t enough, Community got renewed by Yahoo! (yes, that Yahoo!) for a last-minute sixth season.

For many people, the revival of NBC’s beloved cult comedy, following its cancelation earlier this year, is a cause for celebration. But when I saw the news, I felt a jolt of irrational exasperation. Of all the acclaimed, prematurely axed shows, from Terriers to Enlightenment to this season’s Enlisted, why is this the one that gets a second chance?

            Once upon a time, I did genuinely like Community. Although many fans consider the first season the show’s weakest, I’ve always had a soft spot for its zany, idiosyncratic, relatively unassuming brand of humor interspersed with moments of surprising sweetness (I might or might not have cried during Abed’s family reconciliation video). Season two earned its hype with consistently hilarious episodes that delighted in subverting sitcom conventions, pop culture tropes and audience expectations without abandoning its characters (see: “Mixology Certification”, “Critical Film Studies”, etc.). I was as anxious as anybody waiting to see how long it would survive despite middling ratings.

            The third season started out uneven at best, though episodes like “Remedial Chaos Theory” and “Foosball and Nocturnal Vigilantism” were enough to keep me invested. It wasn’t until some vague point after the infamous 2012 hiatus that I realized I didn’t enjoy Community anymore; in fact, the show was actively getting on my nerves. Where the meta commentary and obscure references once felt fresh and clever, they now came across as smug, trite and self-indulgent, and where the madcap energy had once been balanced out by a commitment to emotional realism, it now veered into outright chaos, as if Greendale had been transported from a parallel dimension to a completely separate universe where the basic rules of narrative structure and logic no longer existed. I hated everything the show did with Britta, from pairing her with Troy to gradually dumbing her down. Most people approved of the change as far as I could tell, but personally, I’d rather have the intelligent, idealistic, if self-serious Britta of season one than the walking, talking blonde joke of season three. It bothered me how the other characters treated her, constantly making fun of her values and telling her to be quiet; the “fun vampire” quip was amusing until it occurred to me how closely it mirrored the way feminists and other social justice advocates are viewed in real life, dismissed as humorless extremists trying to ruin everyone else’s party.

 Don’t even get me started.

The Fault with The Fault in Our Stars

WordMaster

            When I set out to read John Green’s runaway bestselling YA novel The Fault in Our Stars last year, I fully expected to adore it. I wanted to adore it. Star-crossed romance? Female protagonist? Teen fiction that actually takes its audience seriously? Glowing critical reviews that included phrases like “heartbreaking”, “brutally honest” and “tough, touching valentine to the human spirit”? It sounded right up my alley, the kind of book I’d fall in love with in a heartbeat.

            For the first few pages, it seemed promising. I enjoyed narrator Hazel Grace Lancaster’s droll tone, her scathing indictment of the weekly support group she attends to appease her mother; it’s like something from J.D. Salinger or Chuck Palahnuik – wordy, clever and cynical, even malicious, but authentically so. As it turned out, though, that was the highlight of the novel. I first felt my spirits sink when Augustus Waters appeared on the scene and Hazel observed, without a hint of irony, that “He was hot.” Not “handsome” or even the slightly more-tolerable “cute”, but hot. What’s more, the description doesn’t go any more in-depth than that, so we have to just take for granted that Augustus is as breathtakingly attractive as Hazel claims. This was probably supposed to be endearing, a reminder that although she’s diagnosed with a terminal illness, Hazel is still a regular person just like you. But for me, it was off-putting and patronizing, a grown man’s lame attempt at impersonating a stereotypical teenage girl.

            Then came the cigarette “metaphor”, which I still can’t think about without rolling my eyes because it makes no freaking sense (a metaphor is a comparison; it’s basic English, dude). And Augustus’s habit of calling Hazel “Hazel Grace”. And Hazel’s favorite book, a made-up novel called An Imperial Affliction that ends in mid-sentence for vague, profound reasons. And the dialogue loaded with periodic all-caps and words like “existentially fraught free throws” that have no business being placed in consecutive order.  And the trip to Amsterdam that culminates with Hazel and Augustus kissing in the Anne Frank house to the applause of their fellow visitors, a moment that’s supposed to be romantic and triumphant but really just comes off as manipulative and insensitive. And the scene where Hazel helps vandalize the car of a girl she’s never talked to or even met because obviously, Monica must be a heartless bitch for dumping Isaac and it can’t possibly matter what her side of the story is. And the part when Peter Van Houten inexplicably shows up in Hazel’s car and we’re not supposed to find it creepy as hell because he reveals some tragic backstory that explains his asshole behavior, except it just makes him seem more pathetic than before and I don’t even care in the first place.

            All in all, it was a colossal disappointment. There were occasional moments that I found genuinely touching, like when Hazel cringes at the painfully insincere condolence messages left behind for a deceased cancer patient, or Augustus’s sweeping declaration of his love for Hazel (Titanic and Casablanca are two of my favorite movies ever, so I have nothing against grand romantic gestures), but those were far outnumbered by the times I had to resist shutting the book out of exasperation. Still, for a while, I put off writing about it. I’ve been trying my damnedest not to be one of those narrow-minded snobs who reflexively dismisses anything aimed at teenage girls, and it’s not like I consider myself superior or more discerning for defying popular opinion; if anything, I envy the novel’s fans, since there are few things as rewarding as literature that burrows into your soul and makes you feel like a somehow wiser, fuller person.

Obligatory Oscar Post Part 1: American Hustle and Crowd-Pleasers

WordMaster

              The arrival of the New Year can be many different things to many different people, from the promise of a fresh start to another reminder of the transience of life and inevitability of time, but for a pop culture junkie like me, it means three things: top 10 or “best of” lists, disposable action flicks and horror sequels and, as if to compensate for the second item, the Oscars. As far as award seasons go, this one is shaping up to be quite interesting, boasting an unusually strong field with no obvious frontrunners, at least in the main categories (Gravity might as well accept its Best Visual Effects trophy right now). Of course, things might and probably will change once the Golden Globes and Guilds reveal their winners, but for now, the competition remains happily wide open.

              Personally, I’ve never been all that invested in seeing what wins Best Picture, largely because, as anyone even remotely familiar with how the film industry works knows, it’s about as meaningful a title as “executive producer” (more on that in Part 2). But each year, I still find myself getting irrationally defensive about at least one movie, often one that I would readily acknowledge is far from flawless. Like any other topic covered by the media, from politics to pro sports, the Oscars acquire a set of narratives –storylines contrived to help the public follow, process and interpret events. In 2009, for example, we had the faux-rivalry between directors/ex-spouses Kathryn Bigelow and James Cameron, and last year was the completion of Ben Affleck’s redemption arc. We’re only just reaching the heat of this year’s race, but you can already see the narratives materializing. The Wolf of Wall Street is the movie that’s too dark and edgy for the unadventurous Academy. 12 Years a Slave is the Big, Important Film that everyone wants to win. And, for whatever reason, American Hustle is the bland, inoffensive “crowd-pleaser” that’s probably going to win even though it’s not Big and Important.

 Maybe because it’s kind of/sort of similar to Argo (a movie that also gets routinely over-simplified)?

              For the record, American Hustle isn’t my favorite movie of 2013 (that honor currently belongs to the poignant Before Midnight) or my personal choice for Best Picture (I’m being cliché and rooting for 12 Years a Slave, though I’d also be delighted to see Gravity come out ahead). But I still liked it a lot, and it’s disappointing to see the dismissive, even condescending attitude many critics have toward it. I shouldn’t feel the urge to root against a film I thoroughly enjoyed just so I won’t have to tolerate the barrage of hyperbolic outrage that will inevitably greet its victory.

Captain America 2 or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Accept That Marvel Is Evil

WordMaster

            This post, like many of my blog posts, was originally supposed to be a rant. As much as I hate to sound like an insufferable elitist constantly railing against the mindless unoriginality and lack of diversity in mainstream cinema, my patience has been dwindling as rapidly as the ratings for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. For the first time, I kind of understand why critics spend so much time denouncing modern blockbusters as superficial fluff pandering to some fictitious lowest-common-denominator audience. With its emphasis on CGI bombast and manufactured hype shifted into overdrive, the summer movie season has become more exhausting than fun, and this year, I found myself rejoicing when fall (aka awards season) finally arrived because even though Oscar-bait has its own problems, at least it involves something other than white dudes in colorful spandex punching one another for hours on end.

            Of course, you could pose any number of valid arguments about how all the doom-prophesizing and rose-colored yearning for the good ol’ days when artistic integrity really meant something is bullshit, which it is. In terms of financial success, the blockbuster format is as alive and well as ever; in fact, despite the widespread media coverage of bombs like The Lone Ranger and After Earth, 2013 turned out to be Hollywood’s most lucrative summer of all-time. Plus, even though studios increasingly rely on tent-poles like superhero movies to generate their profit, they still manage to produce plenty of smart, ambitious, more intimate films along with the big-budget extravaganzas. Besides, it’s not like Golden Age Hollywood was a shining beacon of innovation and daring either. The only real differences between then and now are that action flicks have surpassed musicals and westerns in popularity and movies tend to revolve around brand names rather than star power.

            My frustration has nothing to do with nostalgia. If anything, with the rise of indie cinema, I’d venture to say that cinema is overall in better condition than it was before, since it’s become easier than ever for unconventional filmmakers and previously marginalized voices to reach an audience. For example, I highly doubt that movies like Gravity and 12 Years a Slave would have gotten released fifteen or twenty years ago, let alone become frontrunners for Best Picture, and only five years ago, not a single woman had ever won an Academy Award for directing.

Still so happy for you.

In general, I like to think of myself as fairly open-minded when it comes to art, and my heart has been broken enough times by movies, from Eragon to The Lovely Bones to Prometheus, that I have more or less accepted the fact that most things won’t live up to my expectations. But for whatever reason, whether it’s because Hollywood really is undergoing some sort of creative implosion or I’ve just gotten a lot more cynical and hard-to-please lately, this summer seemed even worse than usual. The breaking point for me was Man of Steel. Sitting in the theater during the last hour or so of that movie, alternately fighting the urge to glance at my watch and stuffing my fist in my mouth to stop from bursting into inane laughter, I could actually feel my soul being crushed. It was like witnessing the apocalypse, the moment when it dawns on you that the future is doomed and hope is nothing but a fool’s dream, a cruel prank. Is this really what we have come to? Struggling to be amused by an insultingly blatant recreation of 9/11 and stilted dialogue spoken by characters with all the depth and charisma of blank paper? After the letdowns that were Iron Man 3 and Star Trek into Darkness, this was the last straw, the icing on the cake of mediocrity.

Representation, Point-of-View and How to Fix Blockbusters

WordMaster

             One of the most common responses to women who criticize the lack of prominent, well-written female superheroes is something along the lines of: “Who cares if the main character is a man, as long as the movie is good?” Which is technically true, since movies like Citizen Kane and The Lord of the Rings aren’t any less great for revolving around rich white men (or, in the case of the latter, hobbits), and despite the growing dissatisfaction with TV antiheroes, Tony Soprano, Don Draper and Walter White will always be complex, fascinating characters.

             But as much as some people try their damnedest to ignore it or to dismiss it as irrelevant, media representation is a big deal. Consider the explanations studios use to defend their reluctance to release a mainstream superhero movie headlined by a woman:

1)      Women can’t carry movies (ahem, Sandra Bullock says hi and go fuck yourself).

2)      Women don’t go to see genre movies (indeed, every single person who’s ever gone to any sci-fi, fantasy, action or horror movie is a white male between the ages of 12-25).

3)      Catwoman and Elektra sucked, so clearly, female superhero movies just inherently suck (never mind that Daredevil and X-Men Origins: Wolverine, among others, also sucked).

4)      It’s too big of a risk (after all, The Hunger Games was a major box office bomb – almost as bad as John Carter!).

5)      There aren’t many actresses who are kick-ass enough to pull off action roles (oh, please).

            So, yes, it matters a lot. It matters because, 27 years after Sigourney Weaver vanquished a colony of aliens in James Cameron’s adrenaline-charged action classic, we shouldn’t have to tolerate these bullshit excuses anymore. It matters because we live in a world where a feature-length, live-action blockbuster centered on Aquaman seems less far-fetched than one with Wonder Woman, where we have to struggle to get Black Widow her own solo project, yet Marvel can make a movie containing a CGI raccoon with a freaking rocket launcher and no one bats an eye. It matters because at one point this year, the D.C. metropolitan area had a whopping 25 screenings of movies about women. It matters because whenever a non-white actor is cast in an even moderately high-profile role, Internet message boards are flooded with commenters fuming about how the PC police are destroying the integrity of their beloved franchise with “lazy” attempts to “diversify” (apparently, the continuity of a fictional universe matters more than any desire to break down decades of institutionalized prejudice).

Let’s not forget that time when so-called “fans” of The Hunger Games spewed racist complaints about a character that was explicitly written as black in the source material.

           Perhaps most importantly, though, it matters because, as any English teacher will tell you, point- of-view is a vital part of storytelling, if not the most vital part. After all, at their core, stories are about the journeys of characters, their efforts to complete a task, satisfy a desire or overcome an obstacle; who those characters are defines the story’s direction, tone, pacing, ideology, everything. You can’t just choose any random character to be your protagonist, and you can’t change your protagonist without completely changing the story.

The Wonder of Not Being Spoiled

StarGazer

***THAR BE SPOILERS AHEAD***

                For the following:

Psycho

Game of Thrones

Iron Man 3

        I hate spoilers with a burning, fiery passion. On a list of things I hate most in the world, spoilers are probably number three, right behind war and bigotry. Okay, well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration (my priorities aren’t that messed up), but let’s just say that I’m the kind of person who’ll cover my ears and start yelling “Lalalala” at the top of my lungs whenever someone starts talking about a movie or TV show episode that I haven’t seen yet.

        In this day and age, though, it’s impossible to avoid spoilers completely, especially if you’re an entertainment junkie like me. Between social media sites like Twitter and Tumblr that allow people to instantly share and dissect information, increasingly pervasive advertising campaigns and the general Internet Age mentality of “Tell me everything!” rather than “Surprise me!”, it has become easier to find out whatever you might want to know about a given movie, TV show, book etc., along with a bunch of stuff you don’t want to know or don’t care about. You can figure out whether something’s supposed to be good weeks – sometimes even months – before actually seeing it, thanks to film festivals and advanced screenings, and the sheer amount of coverage given to nearly every step of a major project’s development process, from casting rumors and tidbits about the plot or characters to publicity stills and on-set photos, has left little room for mystery. If you haven’t seen a movie in its first week of release or the latest TV episode within a day or so of when it first airs, going Internet-free – or at least shunning entertainment and social media websites – would be advisable. Had Hitchcock’s Psycho come out now, it’s hard to imagine that he would’ve been able to keep Janet Leigh’s sudden, first-act demise a secret the way he did when it was released in 1960.

         All of this makes it even more impressive when a piece of art or entertainment does actually manage to surprise audiences. Take, for instance, the penultimate episode in season three of HBO’s Game of Thrones, titled “The Rains of Castamere”. As someone who had devoured the A Song of Ice and Fire books years ago, I was both eagerly anticipating and quietly dreading this episode, which readers of the books knew would contain an event that came to define the series and traumatized nerds everywhere when A Storm of Swords was published in 2000. Known by the moniker “The Red Wedding” in canon, this event is so infamous and demanded so much secrecy that, while filming, the cast and crew referred to it only as the “Scene Which Shall Not Be Named”. What’s more, fans who had already been initiated into the horrors of the Red Wedding displayed some astounding dedication to keeping show-only newbies blissfully unaware of what was in store. Of course, there were exceptions, as has to be expected given that spoilers are a simple Google search away and there are always going to be some people who let a spoiler or two slip to a newbie, either in a deliberate jerk move or unwittingly. Still, the majority of readers played along, minimizing possible hints of the scene to coy winks and smirks.

Female Nudity and the Critic's Gaze

WordMaster

Between the convoluted plot and J.J. Abrams & co.’s reluctance to deviate from canon despite the fact that the franchise’s recent incarnation was set up as a reboot, not a remake, Star Trek Into Darkness isn’t quite the soul-crushing masterpiece I was hoping for. Basically, it’s more The Dark Knight Rises than The Dark Knight: enjoyable and well-acted with some great moments but undeniably messy. For all its flaws, though, the movie deserves to be remembered for more than a brief shot of Alice Eve in lingerie, which is apparently the biggest conversation surrounding the film, eclipsing Zachary Quinto's touching performance as Spock or, on the negative side, the blatant 9/11 parallels, numerous plot holes and even the troubling white-washing of Khan.

            That’s not to say the aforementioned shot isn’t worth talking about. Co-writer Damon Lindelof (who seems to attract outrage the way metal attracts electricity) and even Abrams himself have admitted that it was at best poorly executed and at worst misogynistic. Regardless of the filmmakers’ actual intentions, it’s easy to see how people would interpret the scene as blatant, gratuitous pandering to fanboys, since it had only the most tenuous connection to the ongoing action and apparently, all sci-fi movies should be marketed exclusively to dumb, horny teenage boys. As a whole, the film’s treatment of its female characters, while not necessarily outright misogynistic, is less than ideal. I’m all for a Spock-Uhura romance, but it would be nice if she got a storyline that didn’t directly involve her relationship with him, or if the character of Dr. Carol Marcus served a purpose beyond being a potential love interest for Kirk; I was disappointed that the movie never developed the budding rivalry between Dr. Marcus and Spock that was implied in her first scene (besides, if she ends up with anyone, it should totally be Bones, not Kirk, but maybe that’s just me).

            Even so, I can’t get worked up about The Scene. First of all, it could be argued that all the supporting characters, with the exception of Khan, were basically defined by their relationship to Kirk and/or Spock, and I was glad that Uhura actually got to utilize her language and fighting skills (hell, she got to rescue Spock at the end). Also, contrary to what one blogger says, unless my memory is mistaken, Uhura was not the only woman aboard the Starship Enterprise; like what Joss Whedon did in The Avengers, Abrams included some women and non-white people (!) in the background of the crew, which isn’t exactly progressive or worthy of applause but doesn’t erase the fact that they were present nonetheless. As for Dr. Marcus, it makes sense that Kirk would view her primarily as a sexual object and express little interest in her supposed intellectual capabilities, since Abrams’s version of the character has always been portrayed as something of a serial philanderer.

The Radical and Ingenious Feminism of Gone Girl

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Lucky Him: Why the King of Queens Principle Needs to Die

StarGazer

           Let me paint a picture for you. Once upon a time, there lived a schlubby guy with low self-esteem. He toiled away day after day at a menial job, receiving no recognition for his hard work and generally getting nowhere in life. His friends and coworkers agree that he is an all-around loser and make fun of him when he’s not in the room and, on occasion, when he is; perhaps they only hang out with him because he makes them feel better about themselves. Then, one day, they get the opportunity to finally meet the wife he keeps talking about (some of them had even questioned whether she really existed, because who’d want to marry a guy like that?). The time comes to meet her, and they can’t believe their eyes! The woman standing before them isn’t the homely embarrassment they were expecting: in fact, she’s downright hot. Like, Playboy bunny hot. Suddenly, they’re in awe of him. They can’t stop giving each other looks, wondering how that sucker scored such a babe of a wife. What’s his secret?

           Does this scenario sound familiar to you? If it doesn’t, you must not have watched a single movie or TV show in, I don’t know, your life (in which case, I’m not sure why you’re reading this blog, but you’re certainly welcome to stay). The average-looking dude/bombshell gal dynamic, which I am hereby dubbing the King of Queens Principle for this article, has been a pop culture staple for decades, appearing in everything from Annie Hall and The Hunchback of Notre Dame to Adam Sandler movies and pretty much anything about high school and teenagers ever.

            In case you can’t already tell, this particular cliché is a bit of a pet peeve of mine. Most recently, it was brought to my attention by a subplot in the latest episode of Parks & Rec. For those who don’t watch the show, or haven’t seen the latest episode, Jerry, who is essentially the loser described in the hypothetical situation above, throws a Christmas party, and to the amazement of some of the other characters, this party is actually really popular and awesome. At the party, they see his wife, Gayle, for the first time, and what do you know, she’s incomprehensibly hot. Tall and blonde with an hourglass-ish figure, she looks like a model; as a matter of fact, she’s played by real-life model Christie Brinkley. What’s more, she’s so attractive that she looks the same age as her and Jerry’s three daughters, who are also very pretty. Adam Scott’s Ben essentially spends the entire episode gaping at the sight this man, hapless, square-as-a-box Jerry, with that woman.