What Is Terry Richardson Guilty Of?

Since the early 90s, Terry Richardson has let his freak flag fly him all the way to the top. Balding and bespectacled, the self-appointed “Naughty Knave” of the fashion industry wears a button-down flannel and a simpering grin. He is notorious for coercing barely-legal models into getting naked and performing sex acts for the camera. He is one of the most successful photographers in the business.

Being a pervert is the cornerstone of Richardson’s personal brand, which could be labeled “creep chic.” One disgusted model described his signature outfit as a “hipster pedophile costume.” He requests that his subjects call him Uncle Terry in a deliberate attempt at upping the ick factor.

Ironically, it may be this out-and-proud perversity that places the shady shutterbug above suspicion. Richardson - a citizen of scandal-happy post-Lewinsky America – has photographed himself receiving fellatio from his own young intern, and put it on display. How do you expose a person obsessed with exposing himself? And is there perhaps some relief in seeing a public figure make art from his own dirty laundry?

Then again, maybe this is reverse psychology. Maybe the portrayal of Richardson as an honest freak with no shame is designed to obscure the fact that he does have something to be ashamed of. This queasy hypothetical has been brought to the fore on the several occasions that he has been accused of sexual harassment.

Model Jamie Peck described a shoot in which Richardson took off all his clothes without warning. When she refused to get naked herself, explaining that she was on her period, he asked that she take her tampon out so that he could “play with it” and “make tampon tea.” Ick, indeed. Peck also observed that he spoke in a “psychotically upbeat way that temporarily convinces so many girls that what’s fun for Uncle Terry is fun for them.” While she acknowledged that she didn’t speak for everyone, it’s hard not to consider her assessment when perusing the archives of tongue waggling teeny-boppers.

Such allegations have not fallen on deaf ears. The blogosphere is full of Terry bashing. Writers for Jezebel and the Guardian have called him, respectively, “Fashion’s Shameful Secret” and “the World’s Most Fucked up Fashion Photographer.” A Change.org petition beseeching heavy hitters like Vogue and H&M to stop using the “sex offender,” has attracted over 17,000 supporters.

Yet Richardson seems invincible to these criticims, continuing to work at the height of the fashion world. He was once accused by the model Rie Rasmussen of exploiting young girls who "are too afraid to say no because their agency booked them on the job and are too young to stand up for themselves." These are powerful words, but they don’t apply to recent high-profile subjects like Beyonce, Lady Gaga, and Gisele Bundchen. These women are industry powerhouses, hardly vulnerable to the seedy misconduct of a predatory photographer.

Further complicating the accusations is the fact that a fashion shoot is a sexually charged environment, and objectification is part of being a model. It should also be noted that plenty of women are empowered by posing nude, and enjoy acting raunchy in a world that still wants them to sit up straight and keep their legs together.

So what is Uncle Terry guilt of? Mediocrity. The artist Chuck Close has called photography the easiest medium to be competent in, and the most difficult medium through which to express an original voice. Even Richardson’s most notable work does not graduate beyond competency. His resume overlaps with that of Annie Leibovitz in terms of subjects and employers, yet Leibovitz demonstrates the strength of vision that elevates fashion photography from advertisement to art form. Richardson’s more pornographic work invites a comparison to another visionary, Robert Mapplethorpe. Mapplethorpe’s erotic imagery carries a radical fearlessness that is absent in Richardson’s endless overexposed portraits of blondes pouting against plain backdrops.

A great artist defines the times, where an average one is merely a product of them. These days everyone is afraid of being called a prude, and Richardson conceals his average-ness behind this fear. While there is nothing inherently wrong with mediocrity, it is discouraging to see an artist with so many resources and so much influence settle into a creative plateau.

As with all art, the merits of Richardson’s work are a matter of opinion. Objectively, what matters is whether he is hiding something darker and more dangerous than a lack of artistic talent. The entertainment industry has a history of turning a blind eye to the bad behavior of big names. There needs to be a more serious investigation into whether Richardson has crossed a line from provacateur to criminal. Until then, he will continue to lower the bar in terms of sex-positive creative expression. Of that we know he is guilty.

 

 

What Exactly is a "Strong Female Character"?

In the 1970s, Secret deodorant debuted the slogan “Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.” This questionable line implores women to borrow masculine strength in order to meet their needs. It puts a barrier between strength and womanhood as though the two do not quite go together.  

In the language of marketing, “strong” means lot more than how much you can bench press. It indicates strength of character: resilience, endurance, power, conviction. Not everybody cares about physical strength, but to be “strong” in the colloquial sense is universally admirable.

The term “strong female character” gets thrown around a lot in the entertainment world. Any substantive woman’s role qualifies for the SFC label. But what exactly does the word suggest when appended to a lady onscreen? No one ever talks about “strong male characters.” Ostensibly because society thinks of strength as implicit to malenes. So strength, a universally admirable trait, is characteristic of all men, and some women. What is this quality that we demand of one gender and witthold from the other?

In the 1990s and early 2000s, SFC was nearly synonymous with “gun-toting Barbie doll”. Action movies were full of ass-kicking sex bombs embodied by the likes of Milla Jovovitch and Angelina Jolie. These women existed in a cultural purgatory between masturbatory object and feminist icon. They were skilled fighters, capable of physically overpowering their male opponents. They were usually witty, resourceful, and uber-competent. They were also designed to fulfill male fantasies. Among the most famous of this SFC type was a trio of lethal beauties who belonged, in a sense, to their male employer: Charlie’s Angels. This archetype was the opposite of Secret deodorant: strong enough for a woman, but made for a man.

The heydey of the ass-kicking sex bomb has since given way to a more complex descendent: the troubled heroine. The woman whose turbulent past and/or personality disorders almost prevent her from achieving her objective.

The ancient world produced epic heroes with tragic flaws. Today, instead of epics, there are franchises. There are phenomenally successful book series adapted into high-grossing trilogies. In this mold are The Hunger Games and The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo whose female leads possess the demigodlike combination of grit, smarts, and exceptional skill necessary to overcome unthinkable odds. These SFCs are not just strong, they’re epic hero strong.

But most people, let’s face it, are not epic hero strong. How can strength be calibrated outside of the action oeuvre? To answer that, one may consult the wisdom of the Netflix cue, where the term “strong female lead” can be tacked on to virtually any other subgenre according to viewer preference.

Amidst the lists of “quirky Independent movies,” “romantic workplace comedies” and “visually striking dramas” we find a staggering variety of women at the helm. They are doctors, librarians, prostitutes, socialites, and prison inmates. They are gay and straight, liberal and conservative, of every age and race, on every rung of the socio-economic ladder. They are love-starved executives, pregnant teens, medieval peasants, and Queen Elizabeth. So what do all these strong female leads have in common? They’re all the main character of a movie or TV show, and…that’s about it.

Recent popular shows Scandal, Homeland, Breaking Bad and Mad Men all have engaging, enigmatic protagonists. They are exceptional in some ways, profoundly flawed in others. It is their weakness as much as their strength that makes them so compelling to watch. And while Olivia Pope and Carrie Mathison are regularly deemed SFCs, it’s hard to imagine anyone calling Walter White or Don Draper a “strong male lead.” Or counting it among their virtues that they can carry a whole television show. This double standard suggests that while any man can be the main character, only an exceptional woman can take the lead. Nobody wins.

The tacit expectation is unfair to men. Not all men wish to adhere to mainstream culture’s notions of masculine strength. Then again, if strength were indiscriminantly awarded to every person on the planet, the concept would lose its meaning. Everyone has the potential to be strong, and whether they are realizing that potential should be considered on a case-by-case basis.

Joss Whedon, who has long been praised for his SFC-heavy projects, said in 2007 that equality should be regarded “like gravity.” A basic fact of existence. Many creators, both male and female, continue to work to improve how women are represented in popular culture. There is every reason to look forward to more movies and shows featuring increasingly complex, interesting roles for people of all genders. As for now, it’s time to retire the phrase “strong female character.” Women will do just fine without it.

Let's Stay Together?

The love stories we grew up with were validated by conflict. The prince fights for the princess. He’s never spoken to her, but we can see how much he loves her because of how much he’s willing to endure – enchanted forests! Evil witches! Fire breathing dragons! – to win her hand. Maybe the two lovers come from families that have sworn eternal enmity to one another. Maybe one of them is in a coma. The formula is the same; two people who barely know each other are so convinced that they’re meant to be together that they’re willing to move heaven and earth to make it happen. When they unite (finally, triumphantly) it is understood that their conflict quota is met and they’re life from here on out will be smooth sailing. This implicit understanding is encapsulated in the classic narrative bookend “happily ever after”.

            Modern love, as we’ve hopefully all noticed, is different. Romantic partners are not preternaturally certain of their match (at least not after the initial infatuation wears off) and the obstacles are subtler. The setbacks preventing “happily ever after” have turned inward. Instead of doing battle with a fire breathing dragon, we must confront the past traumas that made it hard to trust people. Instead of a spell cast by an evil witch, we struggle with temptation and fidelity. The star-crossed lovers of lore were uncomplicated archetypes whose only flaw was the fact that by no fault of their own they were in a complicated situation. The lovers in today’s parables have accumulated the burdens of a life lived, and any relationships they embark on are inevitably impacted by that. Today’s romcom characters, like their Haagen Dazs spooning audience, must navigate the internal obstacle course of a fully realized human being.

            Nobody’s perfect. Everyone has faults and baggage that can make it unpleasant to be in a relationship with them. Some couples find ways to overcome those setbacks and forge a happy life together. Other couples cannot In the latter case, the couple eventually comes to terms with the fact it’s not going to work, and break up. They’re sad for a while, but enjoy a higher quality of life as individuals in the long term. It’s a happy ending. Yet, as viewers of romantic movies we tend to attach the same feeling to these modern lovers as we did to their fairytale counterparts. We view all the neuroses and incompatibilities as so many miniature dragons, trying (and ultimately failing) to obstruct the course of true love. In other words, no matter how unhappy we’ve seen them make each other, we still want the crazy kids to work it out.            

            It would seem that modern viewers don’t know when to fold ‘em, and don’t want to know. We prefer to be pelted with parables about how love conquers all. Why is it still so important to see everyone happily matched at the end? If the relationship was not overtly abusive, we want these crazy kids to work it out. Even if they fight constantly, even if their entire courtship was based on a lie.

            This latter situation occurs at a startling rate in romantic movies. We meet a couple whose chemistry is tainted by the fact that one is actively deceiving the other with a massive, elaborate lie. Generally the liar is either misrepresenting his or her own identity or harboring a secret ulterior motive behind the courtship. Does love always shine through, thus negating this ulterior motive? Sure. But the fact remains that you’re sleeping with someone capable of lying to your face for an extended period of time. Never Been Kissed, 10 Things I Hate About You, She’s All That, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Ever After, Maid in Manhatten, Just Go With It, 40 Days and 40 Nights, and many other romcom standards feature such a theme. Generally, the lie is revealed at the three quarters mark (with almost mathematical precision), which leaves about fifteen minutes for the liar to convince the wounded love interest to forgive them. Such behavior should be considered a major liability. But in movies, it’s merely a twist in the third act, gathering momentum for a big dramatic finish.

            Then there’s the matter of two people who simply don’t make each other happy anymore. These are situations that most people have encountered at one time or another, and are ultimately glad to have moved away from. And yet we still Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind handles the problem in a unique way by showing us – via the targeted memories of Jim Carrey’s Joel – a relationship in reverse. The relationship went south, so when viewed backwards it appears to get better and better. The constant fights and bad behavior that summoned the end are the first to go. By the conclusion, with the happy memories fresh in our minds, we hope that the central pair will reunite. Just like Joel and Clementine we’ve already forgotten that the relationship ended for a reason. 

            I don’t think that this desire can simply be attributed to lingering conservatism. Often, the couples in question are childless and unmarried. So this isn’t about the preserving the sanctity of vows made before God, this isn’t about protecting the nuclear family unit. This is about love overcoming all obstacles. Would we like to imagine these couples ten years in the future, happily reproducing in the suburbs? Sure. But in the meantime, we’re happy to see the credits roll on them making out in public. I think the real reason is more personal than social. We see own relationships validated in the ultimate success of these fictional ones. As if our own decisions to stay in tumultuous relationships are less regrettable if the comely denizens of romcom world are able to work it out.

            But the truth is, a relationship doesn’t need to last forever to be worthwhile, even iconic. Anyone who doubts this sentiment need look no further than Annie Hall. Annie Hall is the ancestor to a thousand lesser comedies about two people trying to find a way to make their respective quirks fit together. They break up, they get back together, and ultimately they break up again. Woody Allen announces that the relationship has ended in an open monologue delivered directly to the camera. It’s like a Romeo & Juliet prologue for our times, setting the tone and alerting us from the get-go that although we don’t have a happily ever after waiting for us, we’re still in for a great show. The fact that Annie and Alvy can’t make it last does not detract from the sweetness and poignancy of their earlier scenes together.

            Allen makes use of a mechanism that has since become cliché – the flashback montage. Moments in the relationship, frozen in time, rosily rendered. But in the movies spawned by Allen’s classic the montage is typically used to justify two incompatible people running back into each other’s arms. In Annie Hall it is simply a bittersweet interlude. All relationships have their lovely memories: their first kisses, their lobsters-on-the-loose moments. There was something there that kept it going past the first date. It doesn’t mean that it’s going to take us to the finish line and it doesn’t have to. There’s nothing wrong with two people making a healthy choice to cut their losses and always remember the good times. We need more happy endings like that.

When does film become pornography and why do we still care?

Creation and masturbation. Human beings have been engaging in both activities so liberally and for so long that you’d think we’d have a really clear understanding of both by now. And yet, the debate between what is “art” and what is “pornography” continues to confound. In fact, the debate over the two mediums’ respective definitions, morals, and merits is so scattered you’d think they were both just invented last week. 

            A common objective of art (as embodied by film) is to portray the human experience truthfully. In order to be truthful, the artist must be uninhibited and unafraid. And what is more truthful than the human body performing the act of love? There is no activity that so thoroughly evinces all that is animal and all that is ethereal in humankind. For years film directors striving for a truly unflinching look at raw humanity seek to portray the deed in increasingly graphic and at times unsettling ways. Yet if they get a little too truthful, they risk the red stamp of PORNOGRAPHY and all the negative associations therein. It’s a delicate balancing act, and the question is raised every time a sexual explicit movie hits theaters: where do you really draw the line between art and porn?

            Does it have something to do with the experience of the performers? Anti-porn activists paint an ugly picture of exploitation and abuse on porn sets. Many believe that porn stars (in particular although not exclusively the females) are coming out of desperate circumstances, or being forced against their will, or otherwise unfairly coerced. While this is certainly the case for some, there are more than enough positive personal accounts to show that it is not universal.

            And just as the label “porn” doesn’t guarantee that performers are being exploited, the label “art” doesn’t guarantee that they’re not. Nothing says Film (with a capital F) like winning the Palm D’Or at Cannes. The honor this year went to Abdellatif Kechiche’s  Blue is the Warmest Color, which featured a lengthy lesbian sex scene. One of the lead actresses, Lea Seydoux, later said that she felt “humiliated” and “like a prostitute” while the scene was being filmed.

            While the actresses in Blue may have been uncomfortable, they were not required to perform literal sex acts on one another. So can the line been drawn when actual sex is being had? In 2006 director John Cameron Mitchell released Shortbus. Shortbus, like many films before it, is about people coping with alienation and looking for love in New York City. Except in Shortbus, when the characters have sex, the actors are really having sex. Mitchell explained this decision by asserting that sex was “too interesting to leave to porn.” In response to the inevitable accusation that he had a porno on his hands, Mitchell argued that the primary purpose of porn was sexual arousal, whereas Shortbus “de-eroticized” the act so as to focus on the emotions and ideas behind it. One may be tempted to think that Shortbus was merely a pit stop on the road to full-on porn for Mitchell. But his next major project was the adaptation of Pulitzer-winning play Rabbit Hole with Nicole Kidman, so evidently not.

            So if we’re seeing real penetration, real orgasms, and it’s still not porn, then when does it become porn? Is it porn when there’s no story? Well, plenty of pornos have stories. At least enough of one to set the scene and establish the characters. These stories tend to be ludicrous, unrealistic, and thrown together at the last minute, but if that’s the only criteria then Adam Sandler has been enjoying an illustrious career in pornography for the last ten years.

            As the line continues to blur, directors find new ways to depict sex while dodging the “porn” label. Lars Von Trier has taken the ambiguity to science fiction-like lengths in his upcoming Nymphomaniac. To shoot the movie’s graphic scenes, he first had the big name actors simulate the sex. He then had body doubles actually have sex with each other. The movies release has been substantially delayed due to the painstaking process of superimposing the doubles’ bits onto the movie stars’ bodies using CGI. In keeping with Mitchell’s distinction, Nymphomaniac is not intended exclusively to arouse. It uses sex as a means of examining philosophical quandaries, mysteries of the human condition, and other such art house maxi-themes. Still, it was important to Von Trier to get as close as possible to the real thing.

            Ultimately, it would seem that whether something is art or porn is in the eye (or the pants), of the beholder. Of course this is hardly a clear delineation. The existence of sexual fetishes means that something that registers as completely unsexual to the general public may be highly arousing to someone out there. Furthermore, many movie scenes are remembered for scenes that featured arousing material. We’ve been so long debating where precisely to put the line between art and pornography perhaps its time to abandon the line altogether.

why does the world need child stars?

Fairytales are all about making dreams come true. They're also full of evildoers who kidnap and exploit the young. These villains are often motivated by a desire to consume the pure life force embodied by the child or youth, thus cheating their own mortality. Other stories speak of the societal benefits of child sacrifice. The virgins fed to the Minotaur of Ancient Athens. More recently, the dystopian “tribute” system at the center of Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games series.

            Doesn’t this sacrificial business hit a tweeny bit close to home? Modern America is obsessed with youth. Young celebrities are made, marketed, and ravenously descended upon. Their faces flood pop culture and entire lines of clothing, cosmetics, and other commodities are made in their name. They are milked for all they’re worth and then - when thoroughly drained of appeal - they are discarded and replaced with a newer model. The majority of child stars who fail to remain cute or transition to more mature success in their early twenties fall into the cavern between stardom and normalcy. Robbed of their formative years, they lack the skills to live an ordinary adult life and often find themselves on a downward spiral that can prove dismal and (too often) deadly. They may not be fed to a monster or forced to fight to the death, but it still sounds like a sacrifice to me.

            Why do we do this? The life-sucking witches of lore crave the beauty and zest of their victims. As though the blithe loveliness of youth can be absorbed through osmosis. The real world counterpart to this theme is understandable. As George Bernard Shaw said “Youth is wasted on the young”. Wouldn’t it be great if just a little of the magic stuff could be shared with those who really appreciate it? It is natural to be charmed by a talented young person, and to feel revived by their insouciance. But do we really have to act so shocked, so personally slighted when they grow up? Every year we bringin a bright-eyed new all-singing, all-dancing crop of innocents, and every year at least one former member of that cohort enters rehab.

            How many muffin-faced tributes have to overdose before we start to accept blame? Rather than address the problem, we prefer to lazily point fingers whenever a Mouseketeer does anything remotely controversial. 

            But corporations like Disney and Nickelodeon aren’t trying to be controversial. They’re going for mass appeal. With that in mind they have cultivated a kind of junior sexuality. A way for, in particular, young girls to be physically alluring without being overtly provocative. When Miley Cyrus and Selena Gomez (and Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera before them) were way underage, they were dressed up in variations on the classic abbreviated schoolgirl’s uniform that attracted attention without screaming SEX. All of these starlets eventually reached a point where it was time to graduate from junior sex appeal. And they all did so, each receiving various amounts of public abuse. The public enjoyed adoring them as cutie pie puppets, but it really enjoyed castigating them as women attempting to claim ownership of their sexuality.

            Encouraging a young female star’s junior sex appeal and then shunning her for getting raunchier with age is hypocritical, but it’s not the worst of it. The worst cases occur when a once-promising individual appears to have been permanently warped by growing up in the spotlight. Who don’t just go through a phase but are legitimately driven insane by spending their most volatile formative years in the twilight zone of fame. Those who never manage to live a normal life or, due to the habits born out of perpetual discomfort, are robbed of their life altogether.

            Some do manage to emerge from the gamut of vehicular manslaughter, and psychological breakdowns unscathed, but even the survivors seldom amount to much. Most fade into obscurity, unable to shake the dubious label of “child star” and we can only hope that their parents invested their earnings responsibly during their moment in the limelight. For every one Justin Timberlake there are a dozen degenerates and a hundred nobodies. And those who don’t make it are left with an unfair legacy, forever remembered as their most awkward selves. If my diaries and actions and fashion choices from my teenage years were somehow made public, I’d be a laughing stock. It may not make headlines, but it’s a humiliation not easily scrubbed off.  

            So in many if not most cases, the effects of child stardom are negative. Which leads me to my titular question. Is it possible to simply abandon the practice altogether? Surely the commercial and entertainment value of these doomed youngsters does not outweigh the toll it takes on their lives as adults? 

            Unless…the fact that they’re doomed is half the fun. Unless their downfall is built into their entertainment value as a grotesque second act. In our world of screens and short attention spans, the goal of the entertainment industry is to keep us from looking away and if there’s one thing we can’t look away from it’s a train wreck. Perhaps we aren’t so different from the fictional child-sacrificing societies, and stardom is merely the ceremony before the slaughter.

            Amanda Bynes and Lindsay Lohan sold tabloids and kept paparazzi in business with their prolonged public breakdowns. And theirs’ was hardly the first generation to implode. By the time their prepubescent selves were brought onto the scene it was well known that child stars had a tendency to go red giant before their time. And yet we persist.  

            Pop stardom is a strange and powerful thing. It has bested some of the greatest creative minds of the last century. Young celebrities are lavished with luxuries, special treatment, and adoration. So it seems odd to liken their situation to child abuse, although it can produce similar effects. The tiny percent of young people who become wildly famous are disproportionately disposed towards mental illness, substance abuse, and other destructive behavior. In headlines, the phrases “overdose” and “child star” fit together as snugly as “Middle East” and “unrest”.            

            The fairytale takes a dark turn, and I wonder if the entertainment executives who first made dreams come true feel some tinge of responsibility. If so, judging by the continued output of juvenile megastars, they either don’t care or they’re doing it on purpose.

            The bad news is that as a generally myopic and youth-obsessed culture we are complicit in this. The good news is that also gives us some control. If we stop buying it, it will eventually go off the shelves. We should stop insisting, as a society, that pop stars start out so impossibly young. We should insist that children be entertained by cartoons, adults, puppets, the outdoors, whatever. Something that does not promote the idol worship of their own peers. Even if they do provide a public service by entertaining us, it’s not worth it. Because the truth is that youth is not wasted on the young. Youth belongs to the young, a fact refuted only by those who refused to accept wisdom as a fair exchange. So rather than prey on the innocent in hopes of retrieving something that is no longer ours, let’s exercise our wisdom, and let the young enjoy their youth. 

Here's To You, Mrs. Robinson

In 1967 The Graduate, made cinematic history with a young man’s affair with a much older woman. Today, the figure of Mrs. Robinson remains iconic (with the help of the eponymous Simon and Garfunkel song, and the indelible image of Dustin Hoffman framed by that stocking-clad leg- as alluring as it is ominous). It was a groundbreaking story, told very much from a male perspective. Not to say that Mrs. Robinson – a glamorously embittered alcoholic housewife – wasn’t a compelling character. But the audience knows her only as far as Hoffman’s Benjamin does. We can only speculate about her feelings and motivations based on the information that Benjamin is privy to.

            The Graduate is about a young man who is seduced, not a middle aged woman who seduces. If Hollywood was hesitant to address issue of an older woman’s desire head-on, then consider the casting choices Exhibit B for their discomfort. Anne Bancroft was a fantastic Mrs. Robinson. She was also thirty-six, to Hoffman’s thirty at the time of filming. Hardly the gaping generational gap suggested by the script. Ava Gardner also auditioned for the role, but at forty-five was considered too old to play the world-weary mother of an adult child.

            In 1967, even a movie that sought to push the envelope with a forty-something woman sleeping with a barely legal man couldn’t bring itself to cast either age accurately. Fifty years later, the envelope is more or less right where it was. When older women take up with much younger men in real life, eyebrows still raise. In movies (at least American movies) the attitude is “ok, but only if it’s kinky”. It’s remarkable that this remains a taboo, especially considering the ubiquity of the reverse situation.

The upcoming movie season features a number of couples that pick up where Hoffman and Bancroft left off, but through a female gaze and with age-appropriate actresses. In Adore, lifelong female friends start sleeping with one another’s grown sons. In A Teacher, a high school teacher beds one of her students. In Bright Days Ahead a married woman spices up her retirement with a May-December affair. Movies like The Lifeguard and And While We Were Here feature thirtyish women taking up with teenage boys. 

Two things are at work here. First, it’s an important (if ludicrously delayed) step to have movies portray post-menopausal women as sexy and libidinous. The absence of older women in erotic situations implies that a woman’s sexual relevance expires along with her reproductive capacity. There are a whole lot of problems inherent to that mythology, so any film that combats it is making some kind of progress.            

            Secondly, and equally progressive is the notion of a woman as the more sophisticated, powerful partner. The one who can pick up the check. The one who knows how to behave at a fancy dinner party. Couples where the woman is older, more educated, and makes more money, and the man is young and hot and happy to be there. We’re so used to the dusty old paradigm of the men dating vapid teeny boppers instead of their distinguished female peers. Here it is flipped, with women finding themselves drawn to callow youth despite the availability of men their age and older. 

In all of the movies mentioned above, the romance is illicit. Rarely (if ever) do we see a love story between an older woman and a younger man carried out in broad daylight. Mrs. Robinson was married, a friend of Benjamin’s parents, and (eventually) his prospective mother-in-law. Her 21^st century counterparts are likewise often married, or inappropriately linked to her young lover. As in The Graduate, the affair is complicated or cut short when the young man abandons his folly to pursue a serious romance with a girl his age. So the love stories are steamy but unethical, ardent but doomed. 

In Defense of Female-Driven Toilet Humor

Lowbrow humor is all about the body. From Rabelais to Apatow, there’s something irresistible about poking fun at what hungry, horny, embarrassing bags of filth we are.The world (as embodied by many a coed social situation) has long felt it necessary to protect women from some of the more explicit references to all those laughably unpretty bodily functions. This doesn’t make a ton of sense, considering that the gentler sex is just as familiar with the nasty stuff below the brain as their male counterparts. Not to mention those other messy female mysteries the slightest mention of which still cause some men to recoil in shock and disgust. Fortunately, it looks like we’re all starting to get over it.

Recent years have shown a burgeoning trend of female driven contributions to some of the more ribald, male-dominated movie genres. The success of these movies demonstrates that women hold their own in the realm of potty humor, while simultaneously combating that other regrettable stereotype that women are not funny.

We’re taking over all the Old Reliables: the “last hurrah before the wedding” shenanigans of “Bridesmaids” and “Bachelorette”. The buddy cop movie in “the Heat”. And most recently the desperate-to-lose-your-virginity-before-college romp in “The To Do List”. Sometimes they are done well, hitting the optimal balance of raunch, wit, and heart. More often, they are gratuitous. They are adolescent and needlessly gross, losing laughs along the way. Just like when the guys do it.

You won’t hear much from these genres during award season, because they aren’t built to make it past Friday night. At best they're an enjoyably forgettable one night stand. When such movies are made for-women, by-women, stereotypes are challenged and progress is made, inspiring Sundance-ready phrases like “ground breaking” and "fearless". On the flip side, when one such movie is a critical failure, it is judged much more harshly.

Most movies that roll around in the mud of sex and potty humor are likely to be dismissed as insipid and offensive regardless of how they do at the box office. But when such movies are made by women, the criticisms dig a mite deeper. The implication seems to be that women, even when they’re dealing with the trashiest of topics, should maintain a certain measure of decorum. If they refuse to do so then they should make sure that the movies have some wit and insight to offer beneath their noxious exterior, as an act of contrition for stooping to the level of poop jokes. This is like saying that gay couples who can now legally marry have a higher responsibility to not get divorced than their straight counterparts. As though, because they are finally given the right to do something, they have to earn it by doing it exceptionally well.

I believe that women are just as entitled to produce offensive movies with no redeeming qualities as men are. Sure, it would be better if all movies were good, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. In the mean time, it’s important that women be allowed to make tasteless, humorless, pointless sex comedies. Because women can do anything. Otherwise, the pressure to be “feminist” will be the inhibition that replaces the pressure to be “ladylike”. In truth, when women feel free to express themselves however they want (even appallingly) then feminist work is still being done.

Granted, it doesn’t look like feminism, at least not as it was envisioned. (Would Mary Wollstonecraft shed a joyful tear at the sight of a Vera Wang clad Maya Rudolph shitting herself on the side of a highway? Maybe not.) But what does feminism look like? Feminisim looks like a world where no woman is denied the opportunity to do something she wants to do simply because she’s a woman.
To hold female driven R-rated comedy to a higher standard is to impose an unfair tax on a hard-won victory. Equality is not meant to be a shrill schoolyard taunt of “anything you can do I can do better”. It’s “anything you can do I can do, period”.

So let them have their yuks, their fucks, their drunken brawls, their sexual disasters, and their farts. Feminism has never been a pretty fight.

I Laughed, I Cried: The Sticky Wicket of Onscreen Tragicomedy

The mask of tragedy, without its partner, is nothing more than a crudely drawn caricature of the human face. And vise versa.

            Misfortune is fecund terrain for laughs, and tragedy thirsts for levity where it can get it. Consequently, comedy is often most effective when it plays off of something an audience relates to as unpleasant or even miserable. Any point on the spectrum of human emotion is incomplete without top notes of one and bass notes of the other. So “art” must take this into consideration in its quest to accurately imitate “life”. Of course, like anything habitually attempted by the art world, it is done to varying degrees of success.

            The “dark comedy”, “comedy-drama”, “dramedy”, “tragicomedy” or however you want to hybridize it, is a popular genre in TV and movies. Every awards show season brings a new crop of projects seeking to tickle our funny bone with one hand while tugging at our heartstrings with the other. So why is it such a sticky wicket pulling it off? When done well, the two blend and heighten each other’s effect. When done poorly, they cancel each other out.

            When it comes to doing tragicomedy well, the principle is pretty straightforward: it’s an accurate mirroring of a familiar phenomenon. Those in the grips of tragedy – the sick, the grieving, the oppressed, repressed, and depressed – need a good laugh more than anyone. And the laugh (though it may be irreverent, even insensitive) goes farther, like the difference between turning on a lamp in a sunlit room and lighting a match in a cave. Bringing successful comedy into a sad situation rounds out the human element, adding nuance and making the whole situation more relatable.            

            50/50 is the story of a young man coping with a cancer diagnosis. It does not shy away from the realities of the disease. It is written by Will Reiser, based on his own experience. Adam (played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) undergoes chemotherapy, confronts his mortality, watches his personal and professional life suffer, and looks sick (not Hollywood sick, but actual sick). When he breaks down on the eve of a life-threatening surgery, it is heart wrenching.  Yet when it comes to the overall tone, director Jonathan Levine eschews maudlin cliché and goes for laughs. Not punchlines or yuks, but full bodied moments of naturally occurring levity.

             When Adam receives the diagnosis, he protests that he can’t possibly have cancer because, among other things, he recycles. When his mother (Angelica Huston) hears the news, she immediately goes to the kitchen to make him some green tea because she read somewhere that it reduces cancer risk. These moments are funny because they show the silliness and irrationality engendered by unexpected misfortune. The brain retreats to a place of foolishness when the news is too big and too bad to handle. It’s devastating, and the whole theater laughs.

            Not all films can keep their balance on this tonal tightrope. Many of the more ham-fisted attempts at tragicomedy sell themselves with terms like “fearless”, “irreverent”, “unapologetic”, “unflinching”, which is really just a sneering safeguard. Implying that those of us who don’t like it simply don’t get it, or are too square, or too naïve, or too weak-stomached to appreciate what they’re going for. This kind of premature critical prophylactic is an indication that what they produced doesn’t have two legs to stand on and they know it.

            Perhaps some black humor is so black that nothing can, should penetrate it, but I think that a really deft comic can glean guffaws from just about any subject matter. There are cases when it feels like the “dramedy” approach is used as an excuse to produce something that is neither affecting nor funny.  It’s like the viewer is led into a pitch-black room, and assured that she’s in the midst of something really amazing. Eventually her eyes adjust to the darkness and she realizes that there’s nothing in there. In these situations, comedy is not only expected to be funny, but also redemptive. It is neither.   

            When a filmmaker sets out to make a “dark comedy”, or “dramedy”, or “tragicomedy”, then the project is almost doomed to veer too far one way or the other, eventually plummeting into something either offensive or insipid or both. When a filmmaker sets out to tell an honest story about people (with all the dimension and complexity that every human innately possesses) then the action mirrors true life and the perfect balance of tragedy and comedy strikes itself. 

Crazy Kind of Love

The tagline for this movie is "Family is a puzzle. It comes together one piece at a time". When I read that I feel like the tagline writer was about to sneak out a few minutes early on Friday afternoon, when he ran into his boss who said "hey guy, you mind writing me one more tagline before you head out for the weekend?"

This is one of those trailers that feels it necessary to assure us that the conflict established in the first thirty seconds will be resolved by the end of the movie. Establish conflict -> confirm inevitable resolution, whatever wackily heartfelt path leads to the resolution is up to you. Sometimes it's misleading. Some quirky fringe films focussing on an outsider protagonist will show you a clip of all five optimistic moments, with a major key song playing in the background, creating the impression that this is going to be about a loser becoming a winner when in fact the feature itself only serves to re-established what we already knew: being a loser is a bummer and often a permanent one.

But this isn't one of those bummers. I'm going to guess that Crazy Kind of Love does deliver the happy ending promised in the trailer. About twenty minutes before the credits roll circumstances will take a down turn (perhaps an incriminating secret will be revealed and perceived as a lie/betrayal/sin of omission, and that will be a deal breaker until it's not anymore) but by the end it will really be all hugs and happy tears and adults chasing each other around with water guns or whatever is going at the 1:05 mark.

Before Midnight

In 1995 audiences were besotted with "Before Sunrise" the story of a chance encounter between Jesse and Celine, two attractive young tourists. They meet on a train, spend a night together, make love, and separate, vowing in classic movie fashion to meet again at the same spot in six months. It was endearing because people love stories about chance encounters between kindred spirits, love and first sight, a brief shining moment where passion trumps practicality, etc. The Linklater Delpy Hawke team reunited nine years later, with "Before Sunset" when the lovers met again in Europe and spent another few hours together, this time deciding to jettison their respective partners and stay together for good this time. That was endearing because people like things to be resolved, with a happily ever after for the lovers we've gotten to know.

Less endearing, although more realistic, is the nitty gritty of what happily ever after entails. In "Before Midnight" they're middle aged, with kids, returning to Europe for a family vacation. While still affectionate, the novelty has worn off. They've got neuroses where their joie de vive once was. And the same time constraints which once lent an ardency and honesty to their conversations, are now cause for the sort of quarrels familiar to anyone who has ever gone on a family vacation. It comes up several times in the trailer (so we can assume it's a major theme of the movie) that question of whether their love has lost it's luster. The European scenery brings up memories of how they met, and at one point she questions whether he'd still be compelled to to approach her on a train if they met today. This series is a straight forward and simple hearted reflection of one relationship, so any questions about the relationship is also a question about the movies. So when Jesse and Celine ask each other if the magic is gone, the audience is invited to ask whether the magic of "Before Sunrise" still thrives in "Before Midnight". And considering how difficult it is to keep the spark of first love alive in a long term relationship, the odds are not in this movie's favor.

Disconnect

Disconnect looks like one of those ensemble dramas where a group of strangers' disparate stories are linked by a common theme, the theme in this case being the internet and its particular, unprecedented ability to destroy lives. It's a three pronged warning:

1) That the very technologies which connect us to those who are far away in turn disconnect us from those who are close by (as in a family dinner where everyone is on their respective smart phones and ignoring each other).
2) That the internet provides a new terrain for predators of all kinds to exploit the vulnerable, the desperate, and the naive.
3) That these technologies are so new and advancing so rapidly that even the exploiters can't control the impact of their actions. When it comes to the internet, everyone is naive, and that makes everyone a potential victim.

Generally speaking, this format is not my favorite. I find that when a bunch of subplots are molded into a single sermon, character development is sacrificed for the sake of the message, and no one gets the amount of attention they deserve. That said any dark fables about the dangers of trusting the internet  get a thumbs up in my book. It's called the "web" for a damn reason, and we've spent the last two decades tangling ourselves in it so tightly that we're shit out of luck if a spider comes along. As the generation raised with the internet hits adulthood, the more "worst case scenario" media the better, and one successful movie can stir up a  bigger panic than a dozen preachy Newsweek headlines. If Disconnect can do for sharing your secrets online what Deliverance did for canoeing through the Georgia wilderness, more power to it.

The Purge

The idea behind "The Purge" is one of those ideas that sounds perfect for about three seconds before you start actually thinking about how it would work: in America, for one night a year, nothing is illegal (the tagline is "one night a year all crime is legal" but that's like saying "one night a year all water is dry" if you're going to split hairs and I am ALWAYS going to split hairs). In the world of The Purge, this annual twelve hours of mass catharsis is enough to make the rest of the year peaceful and crime free. Because if there's one thing we know about criminals, it's that after one big crime they are typically all crimed-out and won't really be up for another crime for another year or so. Unemployment is at 1% which also makes sense because the reason the unemployment rate is so high today is because criminals are too busy obtaining money illegally just for the hell of it. 

The airtight logic continues: the main characters are a rich family in an idyllic suburban neighborhood who, because their lives are already perfect, have no interest in taking advantage in a nation-wide crime-spree. Instead, they put their house on high-security lockdown transforming it into one giant panic room where they go about their business and wait for the morning when they'll wake up and every city in America will NOT be burned to the ground, but rather everything will be back to normal. They'll simply clean the legal graffiti of their house, mow their legally peed on lawn, and move on. But no. Everything goes amiss when their son, refusing to accept his parents callous 1 percent-iness, sees a man in the street screaming for help and let's him in. Some terrifying masked killers (who, remember, are just normal law-abiding citizens ANY OTHER DAY) arrive at the house and explain that if they don't let them kill this man, they'll kill everyone. Because they can. 

It feels like a spoiler to say that they get in to the house at all, but the trailer makes it clear that they do. At which point I don't see what distinguishes The Purge from any other home invasion thriller. Once the masked (why are they masked?!) killers are in the house, what does it add that what they're doing is legal? They're psychopaths, and the homeowners are defending themselves against murderers who broke into their house - that's legal 365 days a year. 

Wild improbability aside, it raises a compelling question. How many crimes are committed simply because they are illegal? How many crimes are NOT committed because they are illegal? Doesn't everyone have something they'd do if there were no possible legal consequences? Still, just like with everything, there are certain individuals bound to spoil the fun for the rest of us. For instance, driving around in a stolen convertible throwing molotov cocktails at office buildings sounds great, but wouldn't one's enjoyment be hindered by the knowledge that any average joe on the street can just up and murder them? I'd probably stay home too. 

Love Sick Love

Oh, thank God. Another movie in which the female desire to ensnare a man into marriage and fatherhood is caricatured to psychotic proportions. The "Desperate Bitch" theme has been thinning out since its "I won't be ignored" heyday, I was concerned that a whole generation of American males might reach sexual maturity un-warned.

Norman is a successful, handsome young stud who is having casual sex with the luscious Dori. He just wants to have fun. But she "thinks she's his girlfriend".

Uh-oh.

Naturally, the next step is to lure him to an isolated cabin in the woods where they will be met by her parents who want to know his intentions and a couple of kids who call him "daddy". I bet you can guess what happens next. That's right. She and her "family" bind and torture Norman while they simulate a years worth of holidays in order to prove her theory that staying together for the holidays is the litmus test for a couple lasting foreeeever and everrrr and evvvveeeeerrrrrr.

Never forget, boys. A pretty girl is all fun and games until her biological clock kicks in. After that she's basically Leatherface.

One final note, by far the most chilling image to come out of this trailer is a trio of mother and children singing carols while wearing bunny masks. The most chilling image to come out of "Fatal Attraction" is the rabbit in the pot. I hesitate to speak for another species, but I bet rabbits are sick and tired of getting dragged into this bullshit genre.

The Brass Teapot

A pretty pair of innocent young marrieds getting rich quick by mutilating themselves and one another. It's a boldly insane premise, and bound to raise a few eyebrows. But the makers of this movie appear to be courting controversy especially with the Holocaust angle and the casting of a lead actress so young she looks more pouty daughter than stoic wife. So the thing which I found most unsettling about the trailer for "The Brass Teapot" was that it was not brassy enough. It begins in the cheekily minor key of a dark comedy, but shifts to uptempo morality. If even the trailer seeks to teach us a lesson, we can expect a full blown lecture from the feature film (and nobody ever wants a lecture). And what exactly are we being warned against here? That obtaining a little money is a gateway drug for desiring a lot of money? That greed can be damaging to our personal relationships and integrity? That materialism can cause us to forget what matters most? Consider us warned. If we have not yet accepted these truths, I doubt a fable as outlandish as this one is going to drive the point home. I am hoping that the trailer is misleading, and that "The Brass Teapot" is in fact the out-and-proud morally bankrupts gorey id-fest it wants to be.

Generation Um...

It’s fun to imagine what moment of supreme laziness that led to “Generation Um…” being the actual title of this movie. Did they ask Keanu Reeves to channel his teen stoner character in “Parenthood” when he thought of it? Was it a working title that they didn’t get around to replacing when it came time to print the posters? The tagline is “To Survive You Must Discover Who You Are, Or Not….” ANOTHER ELIPSIS! This movie cannot stop trailing off in boredom at the thought of itself.

            A two hundred word synopsis of the trailer (and I’d wager the entire movie) would take some embellishing. But basically it looks like Keanu Reeves’ is an aging (method) guy who for some reason is friends with two exquisitely beautiful twenty something women. Probably because he’s handsome enough that it’s fun to tease him but docile enough that he’s not threatening and idle enough that he’s not going to say “fuck this” and storm off to one of the better things he has to do.

            I understand that there is a weak armed attempt at making a statement - the listlessness of youth, the hollowness of excess, the bonds we form in the unlikeliest of places -  here. But ultimately it looks like it has about as much insight as a coked out pretty girl changing outfits in front of a mirror for two hours. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s basically what we’re looking at here. 

Oz the Great and Powerful

I could have sworn the line was “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain” not “pay $13 to watch an animated 3-D rendering of the man-behind-the-curtain’s fake back story” but it’s been years. I could be wrong.

This is officially the one to beat for the “Coulda not Shoulda” award of 2013. I stand by my conviction that taking a beloved classic and slathering it with millions of dollars worth of CGI does not make it more beloved. At best it’s forgettably entertaining. At worst it lures your childhood into the uncanny valley and abandons it there, frightened and alone.

Also, I’m confused about which witch he’s supposed to be sleeping with. They all exchange so many furtive looks it’s impossible to tell. I hope it’s either all of them or Michelle Williams’s Glinda. Michelle Williams is dating Jason Segel, and was in “Take this Waltz” with Seth Rogan, and I really want her to kiss the entire cast of Freaks and Geeks (Linda Cardellini, you’re on deck). Dawson’s Freak. 

In Conclusion: I don’t care how much gay press he does. James Franco is no Judy Garland. 

Warm Bodies

OK, fine.

Unencumbered by any actual responsibility, teenage love has to find some way to prove itself. The go-to way to accomplish this is by building some unscalable wall between the lovers, and then (spoiler alert) demolishing it against all odds. The hormones flooding every teenager’s body create all manner of notions regarding destiny, eternity, the cosmos and other such concepts no human (let alone a sixteen year old) can reasonably fathom, and nothing solidifies your place in the universe like the conviction that two stars in the firmament went out of their way to cross just for you and the guy that sits in front of you in biology class. Romeo and Juliet (a cautionary tale that would be a great way to raise awareness about the dangers of pride and hormones were it not so frequently mistaken for the greatest love story of all time) being not the first but certainly the English speaking world’s most famous example of this phenomenon. Ten years ago, it was sufficient that the lovebirds belong to separate schoolyard tribes. He’s a jock, she’s a weirdo. He’s rich, her dad is an unshaven bathrobe-wearer, etc. Apparently that doesn’t do it for the current post-pubescent crop. Apparently that’s too easy. Even having your parents be sworn enemies is TOO convenient. Now, one of them has to be a monster.

 I don’t know how I feel about living in a world where the “Twilight effect” is a thing but it obviously is so here we are. I didn’t think it would happen with zombies, because while vampires have always been suave and romantic, zombies have always been disgusting and uncoordinated. Evidently the makers of “Warm Bodies” (or the writer of whatever young adult novel it was probably based on) have found some way to (kind of?) get around that. I'd congratulate them but I'm too busy weeping for the future.