Iron Man and the Monstrous Female

I took my family to the movies this afternoon, and spent several entertaining hours experiencing the cinematic magic of Iron Man 3. For those of you who don't know me well, I suppose I must admit that I am a closet fan of the superhero movie--I have participated in the consumerist frenzy spurred by the recent outpouring of films based on Marvel comics with unabashed delight.

Of course, it seems that my training in feminist rhetorics is now an inescapable fact of life: no matter how I try to turn it off, there is always a part of my brain busily analyzing everything I see and experience through one or more of those lenses.

Today was no different. As I laughed, sighed and nervously bit my nails, I was struck by the filmmakers' choice to evoke the Trope of the Monstrous Female at particular moments to up the impact just that much more. The Monstrous Female is a common figure in modern cinema--she is found in movies like Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (think blonde model-meets-alien-lizard-thingy), Men in Black II (same thing, except brunette), and even the Twilight saga, except in this case the power of the monstrous vampire female is mediated by her overpowering motherhood impulses. Just like the motherhood-mediates-vampire-strength situation, the powerful female characters are so often situated within controlling social devices that they have become standard (read: invisible) to the masses. Think about it: she's either incredibly evil and, as a result, is killed off before the end of the film, or she is "tamed" by a man/falling in love with a man and safely married or in a relationship before the credits roll. The Monstrous Female simply cannot remain a monster--convention demands that she be shifted back into safe and familiar hetero-normative conformity before we can all go on with our own happily conforming lives.

Pepper Potts: superhero or monster?

So now comes Pepper Potts, and her shining moment as a volcanic, iron-suit-wearing hero. In her violent yet superbly choreographed climax, Ms. Potts defeats the villain, saves her beloved Tony, and becomes, for the briefest moment possible, the most powerful individual in the film. Her eyes glowing orange, her skin translucent, her long hair loose and wild, she surveys the wreckage around her and says..."Wow, that was really violent." In this moment, the audience is shown that not only is the powerful female something the audience should fear, but that the woman is actually afraid of herself, of her new strength and ability. And that, dear readers, is clearly just an insupportable situation! (Mind the sarcasm, now.) It is only after Tony Stark reassures her that he will "fix" her that she relaxes, smiles, and then they are free to engage in soothing romantic banter and an affectionate embrace.

If you detect a note of bitterness, dear reader, it is unintentional. This is, for better or worse, merely recognition of The Way Things Are. As long as films continue to reproduce damaging tropes about power, about women, and about powerful women, there is an ongoing need for critics and scholars to continue calling Hollywood (and their audiences) to account for their part in the melee. This is why, despite popular belief, feminism's work is far from over.

For an alternative (but excellent) analysis, see also Scott Mendelson's article "'Brave,' 'Iron Man 3,' and the Faux Feminism of Armed Women."

Here, There Be Monsters

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

I just finished a very pleasurable read by Roseanne Montillo titled The Lady and Her Monsters: A Tale of Dissections, Real-Life Dr. Frankensteins, and the Creation of Mary Shelley's Masterpiece. As promised, this darkly alluring tour of the grotesqueries of eighteenth and nineteenth century European popular and scientific culture is a thrilling jaunt through a horrific yet fascinating history of grave robbing, alchemy, artistic scientists, scientific artists, and everything in between. Equal parts biography, travelogue and campfire tale, Montillo’s book features a skillful interweaving of intriguing facts and fantastic speculation, all brought to life by way of the author’s captivating narrative style.

What Montillo's book also brought to mind is the strange depravity that appears to be synonymous with human nature regardless of time period or geographical location. We think that we are gods, harnessing the elements, sparking our monstrous, soulless creations into life just because we can. Yet our visions of divinity merely twist us into the very monsters we work so hard to destroy, a strange and self-destructive dance with the devil in all its many forms. In a way, we are all mad scientists, obsessing over our creations until they awake and turn on us, revisiting upon our own heads the nightmares to which we have subjected our Others.

Our job then becomes not to destroy, but to acknowledge and accept, to educate ourselves and mediate the damage so that in becoming, we channel the danger into more constructive pathways, feeding that divine spark within until it overcomes the monster without. 

Thus gentle monsters, we may be; 

Alive with possibility.

Prostitution, Past and Present

What do Nicki Minaj and Les Miserables have in common?

Nothing, according to my teenager and her friends.
Loads, says me.

See, in my inclination to expose my child and her culturally starved companions to some better-than-average music and acting, I arranged a movie night in my living room during which we would be watching the 2012 film based on the ever-popular stage production of Les Miserables. Of course, it wasn't until the film was well underway that I realized that there was a possibility I hadn't quite thought this choice of film all the way through--as the ragged poor and theatrically dirt-smeared prostitutes filled the screen, the uncomfortable shifting of my audience began. Not only had I not sufficiently prepared these youngsters for the gritty, historical realism that the film attempts, but I had also somehow failed to remember the quantity of protruding breasts, suggestive lyrics, and even an intensely icky scene where Anne Hathaway is shown underneath one of her patrons, enduring his rigorous intimacies with a pained expression on her face.

Oops.

Needless to say, movie night failed miserably, with a few teenagers even promising lifelong traumatization from their exposure to the dark underbelly of France's (Hollywood-inspired) past.

In my own defense, however, I couldn't help but point out a few minor (major!) inconsistencies between the "acceptable" forms of pop entertainment these young people consume daily and their revulsion when faced with a more realistic version of what I consider to be the exact same thing. One of the teens, I happened to know, has a slightly unhealthy obsession with pop singer Nicki Minaj, whose revealing wardrobe and suggestive lyrics and dance moves are startlingly akin to modern forms of prostitution--selling sex, just to millions instead of one lusty customer at a time.

Anne Hathaway as the prostitute Fantine

Nicki Minaj, modern prostitute?

To my feminist sensibilities, Minaj offends on every possible level, far more than a crowd of dirt-smeared, singing prostitutes ever could. While I would not hold up either as exemplars of female empowerment, I think that there is something just slightly more honest about the everyday street-walker than these artificial pop icons, shimmying their way into massive record sales and onto pornographic posters on teenage boy's bedroom walls.

The teenagers in this case did not agree, and probably never will. I don't blame them--after all, they are products of their environments, right? Does give one pause for the future of feminist movement in this country, though.