No matter what I write here, no one will see Albert Nobbs, and I would not blame them for that.

Self-serious quasi-biopics are never the most appetizing box office fare, but there’s something particularly, specifically ...]]> By SOPHIA NGUYEN
February 2, 2012

No matter what I write here, no one will see Albert Nobbs, and I would not blame them for that.

Self-serious quasi-biopics are never the most appetizing box office fare, but there’s something particularly, specifically depressing about this kind of Oscar bait, even for the self-proclaimed “serious” filmgoer. These kinds of movies tend to bring out the best in actors and the worst in everyone else—while the star squints and wails, the camera hums along dutifully, all other storytelling elements running on autopilot. The quality of the film becomes so incidental to the sweat shed by the lead that the film becomes unbearably bland.

That’s the kind of experience that Albert Nobbs almost certainly promises to be. It’s a period piece set in Ireland, which isn’t England, but is close enough for the Academy. It boasts not one, but two different parts for women who disguise themselves as men. Its plot can be defined as the opposite of fun, one of those stories is less “arc” than inexorable roll downhill: born female, Albert Nobbs (Glenn Close, but we all knew that) is an illegitimate and subsequently orphaned child who survives a brutal gang rape at the age of fourteen. To answer an advertisement for a badly-needed job, she disguises herself as a man. Albert Nobbs spends the rest of his life as a waiter at a hotel, buttoning and binding himself, keeping excruciatingly detailed records of his finances, and marching stiffly into an ill-conceived “romance” with a maid, Helen Dawes (Mia Wasikowska).

Despite its premise, Albert Nobbs is more concerned with money than it is with gender or even love. Though the specter of physical and sexual abuse looms over most of their interactions, it’s primarily poverty that oppresses and endangers these characters. In counterpoint to all this suffering, the wealthy hotel guests dress in drag for the VIP-only costume ball, or bribe the staff into unlocking a door that had blocked their nighttime homosexual trysts. So much of the tragedy lies in the kind of things that people will do to one another out of the desire for economic security: the hotel owner (Pauline Collins) alternates between obsequiousness to her customers and callousness to her employees; Helen is bullied into “stepping out” with Nobbs in order to coerce gifts and money; her bullying lover, Joe, abandons her upon her pregnancy, desperate to emigrate to America and escape the fate of his alcoholic, illiterate father.

This applies to Nobbs’ existence most of all. “Life without decency is unbearable,” he says in one of the film’s most poignant lines. Ruled by fear and calculation, his life has been reduced to the tiny red book where he tracks his wages and tips. (That shot of Nobbs’ face lighting up as he remembers his first paycheck is definitely on Close’s Oscar reel.) For a character meant to be an actor’s showcase, he is allowed only the barest traces of interiority; hsi inner life is evidenced only by a photo of his dead mother and his muttered questions to himself. In some ways, Nobbs has disguised himself not as a man, but as a waiter, as function rather than human being. Unbelievably stiff in his poorly-fitted suit, he stands and sits (depending on the occasion) at his appointed place on the stair for hours; he answers bells promptly; he holds trays straight. As part of the scenery, Nobbs can be totally safe.

Contrast his life with that led by his friend Hubert Page (the casually scene-stealing Janet McTeer). Hubert is the other woman-disguised-as-man part in this movie, but despite not being the title role, he manages to have a lot more range. He is one of the few characters allowed to have even the slimmest kind of happiness. Hubert adopted masculinity as a way to protect himself from male violence (in his case, an abusive husband) but also wears it with a level of ease and comfort totally foreign to Nobbs. Maleness allows him freedom and empowerment, not just refuge. Hubert smokes and lopes; he has a loving wife, a steady job as a housepainter, and a gift for easy banter. After discovering Nobbs’ secret and revealing his own, he tries to give him advice about setting out on his own and finding a special person.

It turns out that Albert Nobbs does want happiness, but it’s unclear if he knows what that means. Happiness is opening up a tobacco shop that stocks sweetmeats and cigars; it’s having a wife in the parlor, but it’s also having a clock on the mantelpiece. Nobbs makes the cognitive connection between Hubert’s contentment and its material manifestations, and this, rather than emotion or desire, spurs him to pursue Helen. Slowly, both Hubert and the audience realize that Nobbs doesn’t seek (or is incapable of seeking) actual, human happiness. Instead, he’s fixed on its accoutrements.

Unfortunately, this is also true of the film as a whole, which has all of the trappings of a “good” movie but not much of the animating spark. But while Albert Nobbs is undoubtedly a creature of the awards season, it’s also a sincere passion project: Close took two decades to adapt the stage version into film. This isn’t the most beguiling movie, but it’s one made with integrity and care. Its biggest fault is that it’s a little too careful—without real transgression on the one hand, or humor on the other, very little pleasure can be allowed in.

Sophia Nguyen is a sophomore in Yale College.  She is a staff writer for Broad Recognition.

A woman smacks her scarlet lips together. Protestors hold signs saying, “Take Back the Night.” A lead singer whips her hair around, yelling, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” These are the scenes ...]]> By MEREDITH REDICK
January 30, 2012

A woman smacks her scarlet lips together. Protestors hold signs saying, “Take Back the Night.” A lead singer whips her hair around, yelling, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” These are the scenes that begin Cheryl Dunye’s newest film, The Owls, screened jointly by the Yale Art and WGSS departments last Monday and followed by a discussion panel led by co-producer Alexandra Juhasz. The title of the film is an abbreviation–an “OWL” is an “Older, Wiser Lesbian”. In this case, the OWLs are Iris, M.J., Carol, and Lily, lesbians who were once part of a vibrant generation flooded with rock n’ roll and political protests. Now affluent suburbanites, the women who spent their time striving to successfully “inhabit the darkness” of oppressive cultural norms have become the Oxford shirt-wearing opponents of their successors, a cadre of “young, obnoxious little bitches”. The generational conflict comes to a head at a party when, in a fit of jealousy, M.J. strangles and kills a young lesbian named Cricket. Dunye’s apparent motive as a writer and director is to “compassionately and truthfully address…the emotionally complex set of circumstances” that the OWLs face.

Despite her proposed plan to probe her characters’ emotional depths, Dunye relies entirely on stock characters to people the film. Iris, for example, is the self-involved “drunken slut”. M.J., her partner, is about as macho as you can get; she spends most of her time masturbating in front of the television. Both couples seem to live placid lives that conspicuously resemble two distinct, but mainstream heterosexual lifestyles—that of the rough-and-tumble man who wears wife beaters and his wife, who totters around in black fishnets and stilettos—and that of the suburban couple that wears khakis and plants tomatoes in the backyard. Cricket, the “baby-dyke”, is emblematic of the nose ring-wearing, angry lesbians that have become the new counterculture generation, and her lover, Skye, is the overbearing moral voice who eventually requites Cricket’s death through vengeful murder.

If the character profiles are disingenuous, however, the filming style is indubitably creative. The documentary style—what Dunye glibly calls a “dunyementary”—is labyrinthine but cohesive. In several scenes side-by-side frames make visible what a character is thinking as she interacts with others. At points, the actresses abruptly abandon their characters and comment on the filmmaking process. The film is also peppered with nuggets from Cricket, speaking from beyond the grave. The problem with such a complex, alternative storytelling technique is that it feels superfluous; there’s just not that much, plot-wise or character-wise, to fill the structure.

The characters are too flat—too obviously allegorical—to do justice to the elaborate storytelling techniques. Still, Dunye drives an important point through, although it’s a different point than the one she professes to make: she reminds us that we’re all capable of turning into the kind of people that once oppressed us. The two-dimensional characters, then, while lacking depth, are the simplest way to effectively illustrate the disturbing fluidity of the victim-oppressor relationship.

It’s a laudable and a necessary thought experiment, but the film is so deeply rooted in its esoteric framework that it neglects to flesh out the characters. Dunye goes so far as to turn the conclusion of the movie into a sort of disinterested riddle. Skye only manages to kill three of the four OWLs, but instead of revealing the identity of the survivor, the film poses a question that is decidedly out-of-place in a film that claims to champion compassion and truth. “Who do I think got away? I don’t know,” muses Cricket. The question highlights the conspicuous absence of compassion in Dunye’s approach. Instead of evoking sympathy by shedding light on the wounds of the women, Dunye presents us with women who have learned to inhabit the darkness so well that they have lost their humanity entirely.

Meredith Redick is a sophomore in Yale College. She is a contributing writer for Broad Recognition.

January 30, 2012

Surely this is how it must have gone: after watching Bridesmaids, producers across L.A. and New York sat back in their chairs and remembered, with amazement, that women could be funny. Phone calls were ...]]> By SOPHIA NGUYEN

January 30, 2012

Surely this is how it must have gone: after watching Bridesmaids, producers across L.A. and New York sat back in their chairs and remembered, with amazement, that women could be funny. Phone calls were made, stars were secured, and a whole slew of shows were born in fall 2011—2 Broke Girls, The New Girl, Chelsea Lately, and Whitney among them. Meanwhile, some other, quieter meetings were also taking place, setting into motion another, less noted trend—a rash of comedies which tried to explore the shifting terrain of gender politics from the viewpoint of the American man. Their protagonists, once the central figures of their households, suddenly found their views and lifestyles marginalized.

Those aforementioned Bridesmaids-derived shows may not have been searing, transcendent television—usually, the humor was uneven and the tone uncertain—but at least some will live to fight another day, and grow over future years. Few of the backlash programs have that chance. Out of the offerings trotted out in the fall and winter, only the gentle-hearted Last Man Standing, on ABC, had a full season ordered—and there’s no word as to whether it will be picked up for a second. Its brethren’s lives ended far more unceremoniously. CBS shelved How to Be a Gentleman in a backwater time-slot by mid-October, and then erased it from its lineup entirely. ABC’s Man Up was cancelled after eight episodes, and the network’s other comedy, Work It, was dropped after two episodes. All three shows tried to play some aspect of “the end of men” for laughs, and all failed in the same, fundamental way. Their queasy, uncertain relationship with the supposedly lost manhood of their characters made them latch onto one joke and then run it into the ground.

The case of How to Be a Gentleman is simple enough to understand: Andrew has all the gentle, and Bert has all the man. No television audience will ever get to see how, in their late thirties, the former high-school enemies finally come into the full flower of their manhood. None will ever witness how Andrew and Bert eventually kindle a beautiful, mutually-beneficial, but ever-irreverent friendship full of laughter, love, and learning. But we can guess—and that, of course, is the problem. The liberation of the uptight, undersexed, apparently-feminized man has played out on the screen so often that the show feels incredibly stale. Trying to play both sides, CBS first aired How to Be a Gentleman after Big Bang Theory, and then after reruns of Two and a Half Men. No matter whether its audience had tuned into a warm-hearted geekfest or Charlie Sheen bile, they were not compelled by the new comedy.

Work It is another embarrassingly-regressive one-trick pony. Its leading men, Lee and Angel, are forced to pose as women in order to secure jobs in a pharmaceutical sales office. While it’s not implausible that a pretty young woman would get a sales job over a middle-aged man of average looks, the central injustice of the comedy is not between the attractive and the unattractive. Instead, men are shut out of positions because women have the sexual advantage when dealing with lecherous old (male, always male) superiors or customers. Not only are Angel and Lee fully qualified for the drugs sales jobs they seek, the women they encounter are actively irritating, and in some cases, loathsome—shrill, anxious, and viciously competitive, they refuse to eat in public. The women at home are no easier to coexist with. Lee’s daughter is, in the way of sitcom teenagers, obsessed with her cell phone; his long-suffering wife, always nagging him about his unemployment, is finally placated with the gift of a nice handbag. The show is predicated on the notion that men in drag are automatically, endlessly funny—which is problematic in a whole host of ways, not the least of which is that, as a premise, it is teeth-achingly boring.

The last of these shows was the one with the most promise. Its physical look, quite similar to that of Modern Family’s, seemed to suggest that it would have a similar comedic style. But in place of the comedy-rich diversity and quirkiness, there is a trio of white males: one spiky-haired, guitar-playing type and one knockoff Zach Galifianakis, Club Apatow archetypes who balance Will Keen, the all-American father. Sitting in separate homes, they play video-games while communicating over headsets, the shots cutting from man to man as if the other two are angel-devils on Will’s shoulders, tugging him back to adolescence. The foil to this threesome of friends is “Man 2.0,” Grant, a character who seems to have been deliberately modeled on the Old Spice commercials. Strong and handsome, Grant manages to do everything right: the women swoon while their men remain in jealous befuddlement, utterly at a loss as to how they could ever compete. In much of the shows’ copy, the characters are described, with insistent jauntiness, as boys.

Is it funny that these men have lost their manhood, or is it sad? What happens at this intersection of comedy and sociology? Weirdly enough, these shows manage to be both pitying and mean-spirited about the anxieties they aim to entertain us with. They poke fun at the supposedly manly predilection for cruder lifestyles, but genuinely mourn the confusing, politically-correct grip that women have on the new American household. “When the women take over, they’ll make pride illegal…” one guy complains, “That and eating on the toilet.” Who are we supposed to direct our disdain, and our laughter, towards? The unmarried slobs? The meek and bumbling husbands? The waspish co-workers? No one seems to know whether to laugh or cry.

It becomes clear that these shows are fueled by hackdom more than by misogyny, or, as some have argued, misandry. Of course it’s mystifying how anyone could have watched the likes of Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolph, and Melissa McCarthy on-screen and have concluded, “What television really needs is more men.” In the end, what’s most bizarre about these shows are how confused they are about what kind of jokes to tell—whose laughs they are trying to elicit, and at whose expense.

Sophia Nguyen is a sophomore in Yale College.  She is a staff writer for Broad Recognition.

When I showed up to the screening at 212 York Street last Thursday, I had not been expecting to spend my evening watching two blond farmhands have anal sex next to an emu farm.  And ...]]> By JESS MCHUGH
January 24, 2012

When I showed up to the screening at 212 York Street last Thursday, I had not been expecting to spend my evening watching two blond farmhands have anal sex next to an emu farm.  And yet there I found myself, laughing hysterically as an emu kept trying to bite a man’s hand during fellatio.  The clip came from an untitled video (2010) by avant-garde filmmaker Glen Fogel.  Fogel’s piece was one of many queer experimental films featured in the roaming screening series Dirty Looks, which came to Yale last week.  Dirty Looks is a collection of short films from the late 1960s to the present day that explore themes of gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender sexuality.  According to curator Bradford Nordeen, the series aims to juxtapose modern filmmaking techniques with more historical iterations of the avant-garde.

In his introduction to the screening, Nordeen reminded spectators that in the 1960s in New York, for instance, films were often experienced in social settings rather than theaters or museum galleries.  Movies were meant to be discussed, not observed in reverent silence.  He expressed his hope that these films would not become “canonized objects” but rather serve as starting points for conversation between artists, filmmakers, and spectators.

This specific chapter of Dirty Looks was entitled Long Distance Love Affair and is a collaboration between New York curator Bradford Nordeen and his Los Angeles counterpart, Darin Klein.  The series brings works together from West Coast and East Coast filmmakers with greatly varying approaches and preoccupations—subject matter ranged from orgies to drug addiction to vintage erotica.  What was impressive within the series was not only the breadth of topics but the variation in styles between filmmakers.  People may often think of “avant-garde” as meaning something very specific, especially when used in connection with a “queer” aesthetic, but Dirty Looks refused to adhere to such strict confines.  Filmmaker Jonesy used elements of collage and animation in his film Beauty Must Suffer (2010), while Dani Leventhal employed more classical techniques of realism in Tin Pressed (2011).

In Laurie (1998), Cecilia Dougherty weaves the verses of poet Laurie Weeks throughout her piece on lesbian romance and drug addiction.  The juxtaposition of very simple video techniques with an often brutal narrative succeeded in creating a moving love story.  Dougherty attended the screening, and, along with Fogel, was available to answer questions afterwards.  The presence of the artists enhanced the experience of their work by allowing for the type of social exchange between artists and audiences that Dirty Looks encourages.

What was striking, too, about this collection of videos was their sense of humor.  Oftentimes in academic settings, sex (particularly queer sex) is either a taboo topic of intellectual debate or must be approached with the utmost seriousness.  Though a number of the videos were somber and some even violent, many highlighted the frivolity and joy of sexuality.  Mariah Garnett’s piece, Encounters I May or May Not Have Had With Peter Berlin (2012), recounts her strange and hilarious interview with 1970’s gay sex symbol Peter Berlin.  In addition to being thoughtfully filmed and original, the video examines the awkward parts of sex—flaccid penises, pubic hair, fumbling with clothes—that are almost never explored in mainstream film.  This is not the choreographed romanticism of Hollywood movies.

If you weren’t able to make it to last week’s showing, this touring series will stop next in New York City on January 25th with a different repertoire of videos.  May the dirty looks continue to be exchanged!

Jess McHugh is a freshman in Yale College.  She is a contributing writer for Broad Recogniton.

I may sound like a party-pooper for this, but I feel compelled to get it off of my chest.  First, I’ll say that everyone should go see ...]]> By RODNEY “J PROPHET” REYNOLDS
January 23, 2012
Warning: may contain movie spoilers

I may sound like a party-pooper for this, but I feel compelled to get it off of my chest.  First, I’ll say that everyone should go see the new movie, Red Tails.  In a lot of ways it’s a really good movie.  With almost unparalleled graphic effects it aims to tell a story that follows Tuskegee Airmen, a group of African-American World War II fighter pilot heroes who defied odds to make substantial contributions in significant victories of that war.  This movie is particularly unique because it is the first to feature an all-black cast in a major action film.  Yet, I must say I was incredibly disappointed and misled by it.

This movie is touted as a litmus test for major Hollywood movies with an all-black cast.  It’s supposed to be the one to show how black casts can be widely appealing and overcome the narrow scope of foreign market value, but there were NO black women in this film!  Upon realizing the absence of black women during the movie (and the inclusion of only two women) I was deeply troubled.  Does this mean black women have no worth when it comes to markets? Is the representation of women, particularly black women, so insignificantly worthless that they have little to no role in this “catalytic” enterprise?

I’ve heard the argument that including black women would have disrupted the storyline.  I’ve heard the argument that the script had been revised so many times and a storyline with a mother, wife, or any other black female loved one could have gotten thrown out in the many edits.   I’ve heard the argument that the movie takes place almost solely in Italy so black women wouldn’t have been around.   I’ve heard the argument that this was in the 1940’s during war-time and women just weren’t on the front lines.  I hear these arguments, yet they honestly don’t make much sense to me.  Perhaps I am too blinded by my disappointment to be “logical.”  My sensibilities regarding this movie are not necessarily rooted in reason.  To suggest that black women were not a part of this story by saying they would have disrupted the storyline is offensive.  To posit that black women weren’t around is appalling.  Women were certainly around in spirit, in heart, in memory, and in reality.  In most war movies we hear about the family at home, or see representations of nurses, or women are depicted in pictures or flashbacks.  In this film there was no sufficient presence of black women!

The one mention of Ray Gun’s wife and child at home, to me, was inadequate.  If the filmmakers  used time in the film to flesh out a love affair between one of the pilots and a native of Italy, then wouldn’t there have been time to provide a “flashback” to a pilot’s family?  There wasn’t time to show a picture of a pilot’s mother and include an explanation of her importance in life?

I must admit I am personally invested.  My fiancée is a strong black female actor and I am saddened to know that in what seems to be credited as the first all-black casted movie by a major movie distributor she wouldn’t even have been considered for a role.  To think that I’ll have to tell my daughter that the first all-black action movie to be produced by “Hollywood” didn’t feature someone who looked like her is devastating.

Don’t get me wrong. We’ve come a long way.  I appreciate the struggle this movie underwent in order to get out.  It is, indeed, a stepping stone for black film and black actors.  I, in no way, want to diminish the significance of a story this film does tell.  I applaud the work of the people who produced it.  I sincerely thank George Lucas for his candor regarding the battle to make this movie happen in spite of the obstacles of racism.  And I certainly applaud the powerful performances of Cuba Gooding, Jr., Terrence Howard, and Nate Parker among others.  But it is incredibly difficult to overcome my feelings of being misled and disappointed by the absence and silencing, yet again, of black women in this African-American story and in the American story.

Rodney J Prophet Reynolds is DC ’10, MDiv. ‘13.  He is an IGR Recording Artist from Mt. Vernon, NY.  You can also follow him at facebook.com/jprophetghostwriter, jpghostwriter.tumblr.com, and twitter.com/jprophetpap.

There’s something distinctly American about whatever arrogance, cynicism, or opportunism it takes to green-light a remake so quickly after the original’s release. But because we live in a Youtube/remix/fanvid era (and because we have an ...]]> By SOPHIA NGUYEN
January 9, 2012

There’s something distinctly American about whatever arrogance, cynicism, or opportunism it takes to green-light a remake so quickly after the original’s release. But because we live in a Youtube/remix/fanvid era (and because we have an aversion to subtitles) we call vehicles like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo “adaptations.” When the vehicle’s director is David Fincher (Se7en, Zodiac), that label feels all the more appropriate.

He delivers on this distinctly American promise: no one makes movies like Hollywood can. With what appears to be the generous corporate sponsorship of Coca-Cola, McDonalds, and Epson, every set piece gets an upgrade. The radical magazine Millenium moves from a dingy basement to Steve Jobs’ wet dream of glass and chrome; muckraker Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) becomes improbably well-tailored, toting a bottomless suitcase of scarves and charcoal sweaters. Though this plushness can be off-putting, the adrenaline is addictive. All of Fincher’s films are ineffably modern—sharply-edited and set seamlessly to a pulsing soundtrack. He’s in his element with this serial killer flick, which proves to be a double-edged sword for the director. For all its fluency, the eye candy and cinematic thrills seem to have been produced on autopilot. However spiked with paranoia and anxiety, Fincher’s style is not immune to Oscar-bait staleness.

Larsson’s story is a tricky one to balance properly. For much of it, the crime-solving duo of Lisbeth and Mikael are connected only by his hacked laptop, through which she monitors his investigation into a forty-year-old murder. Eager to avoid the pitfalls of his previous digital drama, The Social Network, Fincher tears through the revelations and resolution at a breakneck speed. In retrospect, the merits of the steady, sensible Swedish version become apparent. The TV miniseries unfolds patiently, even if it dispenses cliffhangers in television’s regular one-hour intervals.

The biggest differences are those between the two Lisbeth Salanders (played here by Rooney Mara). In some scenes in the miniseries, Noomi Rapace’s features were made to shine through her biker chick costume, as if to insist on some universal feminine normalcy underneath all that black. This quality, by virtue of being hidden, makes her all the more tragic, and all the more alluring. (“What happened to you?” Blomkvist wonders tenderly, “To make you this way?”) While Rapace originated the role, she looks like the Hollywood-sanitized knockoff next to Mara, who completely disappears in the character. It’d be silly to add to the volume of prose already devoted to her physicality (see the survey by the Vulture), except to say that Mara manages to embody alienation. Appearance aside, this Lisbeth could never blend in anywhere. Her silences, the merest flick of her gaze, are just as intense as her rages. Rapace swings beer bottles at the men who harass her on the subway; Mara is defiant simply by slumping into a chair. Where Rapace projects strength and inscrutability, Mara is serrated and volatile.

Here, then, there could’ve been two equally viable, equally compelling interpretations of the Larsson heroine, which makes it all the more disappointing that Mara has comparatively little to work with in the new script. The Swedish version more deftly navigated the difference between “sexual” and “sexy,” where in the American, Lisbeth is never fully allowed to be the first without the second. The miniseries’ sex scene is delightfully matter-of-fact, even funny—she takes her clothes off, she climbs on top, she leaves immediately after. Tugging her pants back on, she awkwardly mutters “Goodnight,” as if she’d just stumbled in on him in the bathroom. In the film, the encounter is prolonged, full of cinematic heavy breathing and meaningful eye contact. And as he flips Lisbeth so that she is beneath him, Mikael is cast as the wise, strong older man taking charge.

A similar switch occurs outside of the bedroom. In the miniseries, Mikael is a little hapless, absorbing new developments laconically. He’s stalled in the case until Lisbeth, two steps ahead, tauntingly emails her leads. It’s only when he recruits her that they make real progress, and at every turn, she’s the one making the imaginative leaps necessary to solving the murder. She saves him from his own stupidity, a grisly death, and the libel suit looming the beginning of the film. American Lisbeth is demoted to “assistant” status, while he does the bulk of the thinking. However strong-stomached and tech-savvy, she’s mostly a sidekick, the dexterous, brutal Robin to his Batman. It’s true that she’s the focus of the movie’s final scene, speeding away on her motorcycle after spotting Mikael with his lover/editor. Still, this is a weak parry to the miniseries’ parting shot, in which Mikael catches sight of Lisbeth’s face in surveillance footage—she’s robbing millions from an offshore bank account.

If Fincher’s film existed in a hermetically-sealed pocket of the movie universe, this all might seem relatively progressive. Arguably, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo arguably compares favorably to The Tomb Raider and Colombiana. As it stands, this adaptation orbits its Swedish counterpart uneasily, coming off as a spikier, more feminist Bond movie, gorgeous opening sequence and all. Stieg Larsson’s original title for his work was “Men Who Hate Women,” a choice preserved in the Swedish release. Though the American version may be called The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, it makes the mistake of turning its focus away from its titular character, a woman sticking fast in the imaginations of readers worldwide.

Sophia Nguyen is a sophomore in Yale College.  She is a staff writer for Broad Recognition.

Jessica Valenti is a young feminist superstar. She’s best known for founding feministing.com and helping to build it into one of the most prominent, respected sources of online feminist journalism—all while speaking across the country, ...]]> By JULIA CALAGIOVANNI
January 4, 2012

Jessica Valenti is a young feminist superstar. She’s best known for founding feministing.com and helping to build it into one of the most prominent, respected sources of online feminist journalism—all while speaking across the country, teaching at Rutgers University, and writing books. Although she has stepped down from Feministing, she remains a strong presence in the feminist community, online and off. Her 2009 book The Purity Myth rocked my sixteen-year-old world, so I was excited to hear that it had recently been adapted into a documentary. (It’s available to stream for $4 until February 17th.)

The material is probably not new to most feminists: virginity isn’t real, politicians hate women, and feminism is grossly misunderstood. But like the book, this documentary manages to stay engaging. The film sets Valenti’s commentary against a well-cultivated selection of television clips, newspaper headlines, and pop-culture examples. It’s a slightly updated version of the book itself, with all of the legislative and cultural insanity of 2011 (remember that time Republicans almost shut down the government?) included. By drawing on popular films and music, Valenti shows just how deeply these myths are embedded into American culture. How better to illustrate the virgin/whore divide than with Taylor Swift and Britney Spears clips?

The documentary gleans plenty of material from the work of those in the abstinence-only movement. We’ve heard it all before, but to actually witness an ‘educator’ say, “Personally, I love gender stereotyping…a man wants to kill a dragon…and save a princess,” or to see a talking head claim that a woman’s greatest source of pride is keeping a clean house, startles and infuriates anew. At times, the opinions espoused seem identical to Stephen Colbert’s assertion that Plan B will turn young women into “wanton harlots with an insatiable sexual appetite” or the infamous scene in Mean Girls where a gym teacher warns students, “Don’t have sex, or you will get pregnant and die.” In Valenti’s words, “parody is often indistinguishable from reality.”

Valenti’s narration anchors the documentary. She provides enough pop-culture to get an audience’s attention and enough smart commentary to keep them outraged. Her tone could come off as strident or mocking—she’s frustrated, and rightfully so— which might turn off some viewers. But really, what better way to take on a movement that essentially tells women to stay pure and keep quiet? She rips into abstinence-only sex education, the passive feminine ideal, the infantilization of “virginal” women, and the legislative attacks on women’s reproductive autonomy and health. She also makes important intersectional points—that the “purity” movement has a very specific idea of the “perfect virgin” (thin, white, fairly financially secure and, often, Christian) and that queer sexualities or gender identities are not even considered.

That’s a lot to take on in forty-five minutes. She hits on several of points that have received a lot of feminist attention in the past few years, including purity balls, the absurdity of abstinence-only sex education, and the battle over the HPV vaccine. But, while the need to present plenty of evidence is understandable, the film sometimes feels scattered and its order forced. This is a complex issue, and its social, political, and health consequences all deserve examination. The connections between the film’s segments will make sense to viewers already somewhat familiar with the issues at hand, but other audiences could be left somewhat confused.

Personally, I was frustrated that Valenti spoke “of” the youth of America rather than “to” them. She could basically be anyone’s cool, older, enlightened sister, yet seems to pass up an opportunity to speak directly to the youth of America. Her assertion that “We really should be teaching our daughters that their ability to be good people is based on their intelligence, their compassion, their kindness—not what they do with their bodies,” is spot on, but why not say that directly to the young women who may be watching? Those who are most often fed the purity myth could use her perspective the most.

Of course, there is a fine line between making something accessible to teens and diluting it for them. But every teenager who has suffered through a high-school sex-ed class knows that there is a huge disconnect between the abstinence-only message and the reality of their peers’ lives. Some will be willing to consider the politics that Valenti addresses and, maybe, even the f-word (Feminism).

That perspective is desperately needed, as the documentary shows. We can see the many ways this myth is reinforced—in schools, in the media, the political arena, and, most terrifyingly, by the very people charged with raising healthy, empowered children—their parents. A single misguided ideology, with its lobbying groups and its complete denial of the reality of young people’s sexual choices, has so infiltrated American culture that it is taught in our schools and espoused by teenage celebrity idols.

Valenti describes herself as a “feminist evangelist,” and here adopts film as her new pulpit. We have all seen the pervasive effect of the “purity myth,” and it is essential to understand its political ramifications as well as its larger implications—namely, that a visible and vocal movement wants to shame women into passivity, beginning—but not ending—with their sexuality. The Purity Myth’s documentary is a timely and engaging explanation of this threat.

Julia Calagiovanni is a freshman at Yale College. She is a staff writer for Broad Recognition.

December 29, 2011

“‘I love you,’ Ross says. I laugh, ‘You don’t even know me,’ and he looks startled, like I’ve just exploded something in his face. He sinks back against the pillow, confused, like maybe he read the manual ...]]> By SOPHIA NGUYEN

December 29, 2011

“‘I love you,’ Ross says.
I laugh, ‘You don’t even know me,’ and he looks startled, like I’ve just exploded something in his face. He sinks back against the pillow, confused, like maybe he read the manual wrong. Aren’t all girls supposed to want to hear this?”
—from “Monsters of the Deep,” Blueprints for Better Girls

This arch dismissal opens Elissa Schapell’s new collection of short stories, Blueprints for Better Girls, and quickly emerges as something like its motto, or perhaps moral. Each story is narrated by a girl or woman, sensitive and sly—beginning affairs, having children, beginning or ending work, all living at a dark and ironic remove. Implicit or spoken aloud, “you don’t know me” seems to be their parting blow of choice, delivered with an insouciance born from defiance or resignation.

Largely, the characters of Blueprints live up to this self-declared complexity. Each of them is intended to inhabit an archetype—the affluent Brooklyn mom, the wide-eyed theater ingénue, the sorority sister—and each, in some way, defies patriarchal standards for that archetype. These women comment on, but never quite yield to, the expectations of others—but just as easily, they’ll act against their best interests, caving to some unvoiced desire. Delightfully, if rather invariably, their voices are clever, perceptive, and cynical. All have an over-analytical bent, causing them to view even the simplest gestures, whether careless or kind, with suspicion; none are naïve.

Puckishly, one of the epigraphs to the book reads, “A lady never swears”—and it’s true that the best of Schappell’s creations have some element of unknowability. Yet few are especially memorable—they’re meant to be relatable rather than indelible—and have the tendency to reappear, older or relocated, in other stories. This device is intended to develop them further, but ultimately feels contrived. While it’s not implausible that bad girl, Heather, grew up to be an overprotective mother, linking the two voices lends the narrative no further resonance, and neither sheds light on the other. These cameos are scattered stabs at the hoped-for multivalence.

However much the women may contradict themselves, Blueprints does not quite contain multitudes, its 288 pages eventually dragging under the weight of its tokenism. In interviews, Schappell has expressed an interest in exploring “feminine issues,” and as a result, her characters live through rape, miscarriage, and anorexia, a laundry list which is socially salient but dreary. The problem is not in the goal, but in execution. While the outwardly topical segments are not told pedantically, or even badly, they feel dutiful rather than organic, unfolding in predictable ways that do a disservice both to Schappell’s talent, and to her subject matter. Moreover, this glancing coverage of the most immediately relevant issues also prevents her from grappling with the subtler, more insidious issues faced by women.

Despite Blueprints’ second epigraph, which vows, “I will not become what I mean to you,” few of its characters do anything particularly new or unexpected. They may defy the expectations of those around them, but never quite transcend the archetypes imposed on them by their author. This lack of transgression prevents the book from truly coming alive, and eventually, the frequent literary-feminist signposting comes to resemble rickety plastic scaffolding, without which the entire enterprise might collapse. The listless stretches aren’t helped by the supporting cast of significant others, who are largely indistinguishable from each other. Men in this universe are undependable, insecure and insensitive, living in a comfortable, never-ending adolescence. Conceived out of the newly-conventional wisdom about the supposed “End of Men,” they overreach, disappoint, undermine and threaten, but provide little in the way of oppositional force. Few get strong personal characteristics, except for what is derived from their maleness. Complete with lines such as, “Don’t be a fool, there is no such thing as just a girl,” the feminism of Blueprints for Better Girls becomes heavy-handed.

Self-seriousness and over-selling notwithstanding, there are several striking stories in Blueprints for Better Girls, and many poignant moments.  “Monsters of the Deep” is a fascinating examination of the cruelties that teenage lovers can inflict on each other, lingering in the mind long after it’s over; Butter, the protagonist of “Out of the Blue and Into the Black” is also interestingly callous and needy by turns. Some of the most heart-rending scenes are narrated by a mother in “The Joy of Cooking,” who goes backwards through her daughter’s relationship with food. These memories, evoked in flashes of one or two lines, are incredibly tender.

“You don’t know me” is always something of a tricky assertion—challenging a reader to get to the bottom of a book may yield rather unflattering measures of its actual depth.  Blueprints for Better Girls may not be as freshly feminist as its title might promise, but still provides some valuable insights, and perhaps even valuable lessons, for readers and writers alike.

Sophia Nguyen is a sophomore in Yale College.  She is a staff writer for Broad Recognition.

December 21, 2011

Boardwalk Empire said goodbye to Angela Darmody and her lover, the victims of gunshots and heteronormativity—kind of. Angela and Jimmy begin by having another poignant moment-of-reckoning with regards to their marriage, executed with brilliant acting ...]]> By SOPHIA NGUYEN

December 21, 2011

Boardwalk Empire said goodbye to Angela Darmody and her lover, the victims of gunshots and heteronormativity—kind of. Angela and Jimmy begin by having another poignant moment-of-reckoning with regards to their marriage, executed with brilliant acting and ending with Jimmy vowing to change. They have sex; things still feel hopeless. Then Manny the Butcher stages a home invasion, grabbing Angela with the intent of luring Jimmy out of the bathroom. When the lesbian lover emerges instead, both women are killed. Aleska Palladino, who plays Angela, brought some truly wonderful acting to the show, and it’s a shame to see her go. That said, Angela wasn’t really going anywhere as a character, and her death serves as a perfect motivating device for Jimmy, and to a certain extent, Richard. Esther carries on business as usual, a veritable force in the workplace—so far, her novelty hasn’t quite worn off. Unfortunately, Margaret falls back into her old tediousness as she, in the time-honored tradition of Boardwalk Empire, she reads misfortune as the wrath of God. Though it may seem anachronistic for the Catholic priest to sell her an indulgence, this is New Jersey, after all—anything goes. Meanwhile, viewers can hope that her daughter contracting polio will not lead Margaret to permanently end things with Owen, since their relationship does have a certain animating spark for her character.

More than ever, this week’s episode of Homeland pointedly sets itself apart from its cultural predecessor, 24. Last week’s chase of the suspected terrorist, Tom Walker, ended with fatalities at a mosque in the middle of morning prayers. Where American hero Jack Bauer could torture suspects without even doing the paperwork, the accidental shooting, occurring in the heat of the moment, plunges the government into a public relations fiasco. Weirdly enough, Carrie is assigned the clean-up job, dressing in a headscarf and instructing investigators to remove their shoes; she conducts interviews in Arabic along with a Muslim colleague. This sensitivity is not adopted out of innate feminine kindness but necessity, and when the imam refuses to cooperate, his wife secretly meets with Carrie. Lest anyone think that Carrie is a soft-hearted compromiser, ___ delivers one of the great lines about her, saying there is “no bridge you won’t burn, no earth you won’t scorch.”

Yet the other arc of the episode almost completely subsumes the subtlety of this one, as viewers are given more insight into Brody’s captivity. It turns out that for awhile, he was tutoring his captor’s son in English, the days divided between reading the Quran and teaching Issa to sing, poignantly enough, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” This long-lashed, soccer-playing moppet is such a manipulative device that it’s hard to feel the grief of his senseless death. The accidental deaths of these schoolchildren, and the cover-up by the military, are purportedly Brody’s motivation for conspiring with Al-Qaeda. One of the most compelling moments of Homeland came when Brody explained how his captors showed him human kindness, and he came to bond with them. This backstory, however, feels unbelievably contrived. Still, hold out some hope that the kid was a plant by Abu Nazir—it would be more in-keeping with the show’s tenor than a hackneyed, hatchet-job of a motive.

In I Hate My Teenage Daughter, there’s another war going on: the eternal one waged between parents and teenagers, and more importantly, between adulthood and second adolescence. The new FOX sitcom premiered last Wednesday, the latest in a long line of comedy-of-family shows. If you look sideways, it resembles something like the mutant offspring Gilmore Girls and 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter, but with neither the first one’s overabundance of charm nor the latter’s “aw shucks, Dad” classicism. Many fall shows posit situations where women live with women and can be women together, but this one offers the dullest, shrillest vision by far. Where the characters of 2 Broke Girls have the spirit of camaraderie, these bicker and whine for thirty minutes; none of the characters, of any age, are particularly likeable,  and the end of the pilot offers them little redemption. Where the sitcom usually demands a moral at the end of the episode, this one only has petty one-upmanship. After the evil teens Sophie and Mackenzie trick them into being allowed to go to homecoming, mothers Annie and Nikki purposefully embarrass them by taking the dance floor themselves—not exactly cathartic, or even heart-warming, or worst of all.

Sophia Nguyen is a sophomore in Yale College.  She is a staff writer for Broad Recognition.