What's the worst part of Stephen King's response to Dylan Farrow's open letter?

On February 3^rd, Stephen King felt compelled to comment on Dylan Farrow’s open letter accusing Woody Allen of sexual abuse. The author took to Twitter saying “Boy, I’m stumped on that one. I don’t like to think it’s true, and there’s an element of palpable bitchery there, but…”

            Unsurprisingly, King’s remark was met with an avalanche of criticism. And rightly so. By choosing the term “bitchery” King managed to both antagonize Farrow and trivialize her claims. The word “bitch” has long been a popular tool for excoriating a difficult woman. Difficult often because she is expressing a strong opinion, refusing to adhere to conventions of femininity, or (as in Farrow’s case) holding a man accountable for his misdeeds. And the B-word aside, a flippant response to such a sensitive case is staggeringly inappropriate.

After the Internet called him out for his comment, King responded with “Have no opinion on the accusations; hope they’re not true. Probably used the wrong word.” He then rounded out the response with a plea for clemency, stating “still learning my way around this thing” in reference to the massive social networking platform he had chosen to air his thoughts from. Ignorant celebrity Twitter gaffs are a dime a dozen. But anyone who has spent half a century on the New York Times Bestseller list should be accustomed to having his words reach millions of people.

            Where to begin with this worthless non-apology? The fact that he was only willing to cede that bitchery was “probably” the wrong word to use? The failure to realize that having “no opinion” typically amounts to saying nothing? Ultimately, the worst thing about the response is that it echoes the most insidious part of the original comment: “Don’t like to think it’s true” becomes “I hope it’s not true.”

            That’s his public response to the news of alleged sexual abuse: I hope it’s not true.

For who’s sake does King hope it’s not true? Dylan Farrow’s? Many in Allen’s camp have claimed that the memory was falsely implanted by a bitter, jilted Mia Farrow. Does Stephen King “hope” that Farrow was psychologically abused by one parent, rather than sexually abused by the other? Or is he just holding out hope that the woman is blatantly lying? Does Stephen King “hope,” for her own good, that Farrow made the whole thing up out of pure, vindictive bitchery?

More likely, he hopes that the accusations aren’t true for Woody Allen’s sake. It stands to reason that an aging writer who produced a few seminal works followed by decades of relentless mediocrity would be inclined to stick up for someone who’s career followed a similar trajectory. More likely, he and Allen are friends. It is an emotional and ethical struggle to accept that someone close to you might be capable of harming a child. Many handle it by closing their eyes and ears.

We all hope that bad news isn’t true. When something terrible happens (especially to a child), our minds reject the terrible reality of it. But this is not just a matter of rejecting a painful reality, this is about denying a young woman’s right to be heard. In her open letter, Farrow expresses profound frustration at the world turning a blind eye to what she went through. People turn a blind eye when they don’t want something to be true.

From the perspective of a survivor, such skepticism further complicates the labyrinth of recovery. Whether the trauma is recent or long-buried, victims are tasked with putting the pieces together. The pieces fit in all kinds of different formations, and it’s easy to reach the conclusion that there was a misunderstanding, that they – and not their attacker – are really at fault, or that they really did make the whole thing up.

It is unlikely that the Farrow-Allen scandal will ever be an open and shut case. Hollywood and the media are battling over the fractured memories of a wounded child. There are no definitive answers. But even if it turned out that it really wasn’t true, even if the whole thing was a deliberate fabrication to besmirch Woody Allen’s good(ish) name, then Stephen King would still be accountable for dismissing it so casually. By responding in the way that he did, he publicly contributed to a culture of skepticism and victim-blaming that continues to wreck lives every day. 

Survivors of sexual abuse – in addition to dealing with the pain of their ordeal - often face a dual reluctance when attempting to share their story: it might be “I can’t accept that this happened because I care about you” or it might be “I can’t accept that this happened because I care about the person you’re accusing.” In the latter case, the attachment might be born of a personal connection. Or it might be a case where the accused is so admired that the world considers them above reproach.

Sexual abuse is always difficult to accept, and the majority of cases take place in a grey area of accountability and intent. For survivors, this often means living in a world that would rather give their abuser the benefit of the doubt then get them the help they need.

Stephen King likely meant no harm by saying he hoped Dylan Farrow was lying. Still, “I don’t like to think it’s true” is a step towards denial and away from helping a survivor feel supported and safe. When confronted with such troubling cases, the pull of denial is dangerously strong. Casting doubt on an accusation makes it even stronger. The master of horror should think before he Tweets.

What is the theme of this year's Oscar nominees?

In the New York Times article announcing 2014’s lineup of Academy Award nominees, Brooks Barnes and Michael Cieply described the current award’s season as “puzzling,” stating that while 2012 was largely defined by political films, the top Oscar nominees of 2013 lacked a thematic pattern.

It is true that the years most lauded films were all over the map (and, in the case of ten-times-nominated Gravity, way off of it) in terms of setting, time period, mood and plot. But in the more general, between-the-lines sense, a number of the top contenders did have something in common. That thing is evoked in the title of one of the Academy’s noted “snubs”: All is Lost.

All is Lost pits the human will to survive against the apparent certainty of failure. The interplay of those two forces – external oblivion , internal perseverance - worked its way into most of this year’s best films. Life is full of obstacles, and every awards season is full of movies about people overcoming adversity. But this year didn’t just give us your garden-variety setbacks. This year gave us insane hope in the face of total despair. And more often than not, hope won. Here are some more examples:

An astronaut, cut loose from her spacecraft, hurtles through the bottomless void.
A captain is taken prisoner after his ship is boarded by armed Somali pirates.
A rodeo hero is diagnosed with a deadly new virus that has no known cure.  
A young Catholic mother has her young son taken away from her and sent to a foreign country. 
A musician is abducted and sold as a slave to sadistic plantation owners. 
Two con artists are busted by the FBI and forced to work under the thumb of the law.
An elderly alcoholic travels across an American wasteland in pursuit of an empty promise.

All of the characters described above pass through the “abandon all hope” gateway, convinced that they can maneuver their way out of hell. All of their stories are nominated for Best Picture.

2012, with frontrunners like Argo, Zero Dark Thirty, and Lincoln, was a big year for political movies. It was also a big year for politics, with Obama’s reelection roughly coinciding with the time most studios release their Oscar hopefuls. Pretty straightforward.

So, what happened this year that made Americans want to watch movies about overcoming hopelessness? Headline-wise, 2013 was an ego bruiser for America. We found that our own security agency was spying on us. We waffled about our involvement with crises in Syria and Egypt. We saw horrendous violence in Iraq following a deadly and expensive occupation that was supposed to promote stability. We slipped further in global education rankings. The implementation of our president’s signature health care law was a disaster. And let’s not forget the week in October when we didn’t have a functioning government.

When America is threatened by an outside foe, we unite and shine. We imagine ourselves standing tall, chins in the air and fists on our hips. This year we were our own worst enemy, which left us shuffling our feet, heads down, avoiding eye contact. This year was embarrassing.

America was founded on the belief that anyone can succeed if they try hard enough. So it is fitting that the nation’s onscreen avatar is an everyman with secret powers. An Average Joe who becomes extraordinary when faced with extraordinary circumstances. Be it a comic book vigilante, a small-town hero, or just a dude who’s been pushed too far, this guy’s job is to remind us that being down-and-out is nothing but a prelude to greatness. The more powerless he becomes, the more inspiring and morale-boosting it is to see him gain that power back. In this humbling year, we needed Joe to work overtime.

 

What makes an American movie?

American Hustle is an impish tribute to all things false. A forged Renoir. An affected British accent. A Mexican FBI agent masquerading as an Arab Sheik. And above all: hair. Director David O. Russell has lots of fun exposing the back end of his main characters’ deceptive hair maintenance procedures. It’s a fitting motif, considering that the movie is all about faking one’s identity for personal gain. Beginning with the cheeky disclaimer “Some of this actually happened” it never bothers to draw a clear line between what is and is not real. Fact and fiction in Hustle are like two identical kittens, playfully tussling with one another to the point where it’s near-impossible for us to tell them apart.

The word “Hustle” fits nicely into this theme. But what about the other word in the title?  In his review of American Hustle, the Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw wrote “The adjective ‘American’ appended to a word in a movie title always implies something with instant design-classic status, gorgeously laced with irony and modernity.” Such movies tend to carry a wink of self-awareness, but what does being “American” really mean to them?

Let’s consider the other movies to receive this designation: American Beauty, American Psycho, American History X, American Gangster, American Gigolo, American Graffiti, American Pie. Sifting through these titles we find some recurring themes: crime, violence, lust, deceit, redemption, etc. But if there is one thing that unites them (and other similarly qualified films) it is that all are presided over by some permutation of the American Dream.

Maybe the characters are underdogs, crushed beneath it. Maybe they are starry-eyed social climbers, striving to achieve it. Maybe they are outlaws who have changed the rules to make it work for them. Maybe they are winners humbled by the discovery that it wasn’t really what they wanted. The spectre of the American Dream lingers regardless.  

Some “American” movies build a 3D model of the Dream in order to dismantle them. “American Beauty” casts an unflattering light on the world of affluent white suburbanites. With their stately colonial home, their SUVs, and their actual white picket fence, the Burnham family exemplifies the lifestyle for which all the huddled masses presumably yearn. Of course, these trappings of success conceal the mess of neurorses and frustrations within. And much of the movie is dedicated to exposing the unseemly reality of the Burnham’s, and by extension the American Dream they represent. The simmering dsyfunction of the Burnham family erupts as their circumstances unravel. But the movie doesn’t just put its characters through the ringer, it eventually spits them out as better people. The violent death of Lester Burnham becomes a quiet moment of reflection because before he died, he abandoned his consumer-driven misery and found his joy.

If the Burnham family represent superficial success as a family, then Patrick Bateman represents superficial success as an individual. His immaculate appearance (embodied by a different species of Christian Bale than we see in Hustle), his Manhatten apartment, his enviable possessions, represent the aspirations of all who seek to get rich in America. His obsession with status symbols is directly linked to his activities as a sadistic killer, which is what makes Bateman an American pyscho and not any other kind of psycho. The spirit of American Pyscho is dark as pitch, but the story is not amoral. It is a statement against a misinterpretation of American values, and a parable (albeit a cartoonishly extreme one) about the dangers of unchecked greed. The self-destruction of Patrick Bateman communicates the same message as the reinvention of Lester Burnham. We are reminded, in both cases, that self-aggrandizement through material goods will get you nowhere in the end. The movies are “laced with modernity” but their morals are downright Old Testament. And not for nothing. Despite evidence to the contrary, it is a comfort to be assured that America has not entirely abandoned its core values in pursuit of its golden calf.

Sentimentality often joins morality in eclipsing the cynicism of “American” movies. American Graffiti is a 1970s movie about the 1950s. It depicts a hormonally-charged group of teenagers who are both clinging to and running away from their innocence. The implication seems to be that the America of the 1950s was struggling with similar adolescent paradox. Self-aware and satirical at times, it is still a deeply nostalgic piece. The 1990s exchanged nostalgia for raunch in their own “American” franchise about the teenage loss of innocence, beginning with “American Pie.” American Pie eschewed the rosy glow of Graffiti in favor of masturbation jokes. But beneath the all the juvenile hijinks, it is still a story about the sweet, awkward vulnerability of youth. The boys in American Pie are obsessed with losing their virginity, but they’re also figuring out how to grow up into decent men. The longing for classic American goodness remains intact.

Again and again, we see a triple-layered treatment of the American Dream: what is fantasy, what is fact, and what is real. We first encounter the object of desire which – while alluring – is a little too shiny to be believed. The exterior dissolves under scrutiny and we are left with the unassuming truth. But then there’s something else: something that is maybe not as glamorous as the hollow promises of the outermost layer, but ultimately better. Like the happiness that Dorothy feels when she wakes from the dream of oz to find herself back in Kansas. America is nothing like what we dreamt it would be, but it is home. And there’s no place like home. As moviegoers, we like a glitzy garnish. But the story isn’t over until the characters, with sustaining satisfaction, discover what truly matters.

Beneath all the post-modern mischeif, there is a longing for something pure. Once movies push through the gilded exterior, they keep pushing in search of a true national character that is authentic, vibrant, and entirely unironic. Modern entertainment likes to parody and pigeonhole, and the rest of us like to be in on the joke. But at the end of the day we all want to feel the fabric of James Dean’s red jacket against our skin. We are all in the audience together, wanting something real.

American Hustle follows this format. For all the fun it has building its false exterior, it also retains its good and honest heart. The principal characters feel remorse for the bad things they’ve done, and their love of the con is ultimately overtaken by a desire to redeem themselves and settle down. It is well titled because it hits all three marks of a great “American” movie: that which is fake, that which is fact, and that which is really real. And what do you know, it has a happy ending.

 

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.