Categotry Archives: your rda of misogyny

by

Your RDA of Internalized Misogyny

Categories: media tool kit, your rda of misogyny

I don’t always follow the Daily Show anymore; there are days when it seems like Jon Stewart has kicked all the lady writers out of the room and lets his dudebros handle all the jokes. But last night’s segment on Gretchen Carlson was fantastic:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart Mon – Thurs 11p / 10c
Gretchen Carlson Dumbs Down
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show
Full Episodes
Political Humor Health Care Crisis

If you had doubts about the misogyny of the right wing, the media, and especially the right wing media: put them to rest.

What on earth does it say about this woman’s political beliefs that she purposely makes herself look less intelligent in order to be able to speak about them? (Of course, according to Wikipedia her nanny growing up was Michelle Bachmann, so…) And in case you just think that’s broadcasting, don’t forget that many of her colleagues regularly strut out how smart they are–frequent commentator Karl Rove is admired for his genius, for example–but Ms. Carlson has to pretend to have never accomplished anything intellectual before. Now, maybe that’s okay for Michelle Bachmann, who genuinely hasn’t done anything noteworthy with her brain; but for goodness’ sake, studying at Stanford and Oxford doesn’t just happen; neither does playing classical music solos on the violin. Yet one cannot help but feel that the most important qualification for her job–at least in the minds of the heads of the network–was her Miss America title, not her degrees.

But why? Why can’t she be smart and beautiful? (And conservative. It’s a free country, mostly.) Even if she’s the host of a morning show? What on earth is so awful about a woman who can think–what is so terrible that she purposely hides it?

Yes, I know. The kyriarchy. Still, funny how that thing can bite you even when you’re not looking.

by

Monster Rat: A Gallery of the Rape Culture

Categories: douchebaggery, hiram monserrate watch, media tool kit, politicians have penises, your rda of misogyny, Your RDA of Outrage

Hiram Monserrate is a douchebag.

Need proof? Consider the lovely legislative record of the freshman NYS senator: he not once, but twice threatened to caucus against his own party–which for the first time in over 40 years was in control of the upper house of the New York State legislature and had an ambitious progressive and reform agenda, including legalizing gay marriage–making good on his threat the second time and throwing the entire state government into chaos (and costing the taxpayers billions of dollars.) And both times, he couldn’t even stand steadfast to his own dirtbag principles (well, except the most important: look out for Hiram first)–he turned coat on his turncoat companions and slunk back to the Democrats.

And that’s not even what earned him his nickname: Monster Rat.

That comes as a result of the “incident” of December 19th, 2009. Monserrate brought his girlfriend, Karla Giraldo, to an emergency room over a half hour from his apartment. She had been slashed down to the bone by a broken glass. Monserrate claimed he had tripped in a darkened room and accidentally smashed the glass into her face. Giraldo disagreed, although she would later recant and say that his version was correct. But that night she called him “crazy” and said, “I can’t believe he did this to me!”

It seems that he had been driven into a jealous rage by finding another man’s business card in her purse. A security camera would later show images of him beating her in the hallway, dragging her by her hair. She tried to get away from him but nobody opened their door.

He was indicted, but once Giraldo changed her story, it proved impossible to convict him of anything but misdemeanor assault.

Now, I can leave it there: yet another case of a powerful man using his privilege to abuse a woman and get away with it–as Joanna Molloy did in the New York Daily News:

In the hallway after the verdict, women in jeans and lawyers’ suits clustered in groups and shook their heads. “This sets women’s rights back a long time,” said one female court officer.

Forgive us if we find the couple’s story the most incredible coincidence since Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died on the same Fourth of July.

Erlbaum did find Monserrate – who courthouse wags have been calling Monster Rat – guilty of reckless assault, for forcibly dragging Giraldo out of the apartment in a scene caught on videotape.

It’s a misdemeanor, so Monserrate gets to keep his job in Albany.

So for your enjoyment (read: rage), here is a gallery of Bramhall’s cartoons, which are disturbing and triggering enough that (in a Second Awakening first) I present them after the jump.


A Gallery of the Damned

Politics
Most often, Bramhall used Monserrate’s image as a commentary on politics, albeit one divorced completely from anything having to do with women’s politics:

Don’t you just love the terrified woman in that last cartoon? Way to exhibit sensitivity as well as your usual perspicacity, Bill!

The Cartoonist’s Chore

A few times, Bramhall includes an image of Monserrate in cartoons commenting about how hard/easy it is for him to do his job, i.e. come up with cartoons:

Almost, But Not Quite

Once or twice, Bramhall almost shows some sensitivity to the underlying issue of violence towards women–but then as usual completely smothers that in a smug blanket of privileged fuckery that uses images of that violence to make a crude joke:

The Big Finish

This last cartoon ran during the height of the Senate leadership crisis. It is so full of douchebaggery and misogynistic imagery that it practically makes up its own genre: douchedy, maybe, or WTF-tire.

For those uninitiated into New York State politics: in addition to Senator Douche, you can see former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer (presumably with a prostitute) at upper center, and in a nice homophobic touch former Senate Majority Leader Malcolm Smith dressed in the little Lord Faunteleroy outfit. The horse’s ass at lower right is Assembly leader Shel Silver (and an assessment of his character I tend to agree with.)

by

Today in Tales From the Douchoisie

Categories: douchebaggery, media tool kit, your rda of misogyny

Hello, Ducks! Can you guess what Google Reader threw up in my lap today? Did you guess Tucker Max? I didn’t, which I guess is what makes it sexy…or something; I’m not up on my fratire. But let’s check in, courtesy of The Frisky

Oh, what? The fratire thing?

The Frisky: Gawker deemed you a “ham-fisted frat s***.” The feminist bloggers hate you. You’ve been called a “professional sexist,” “anti-feminist,” and a “promoter of rape culture.” The New York Times labeled your prose “fratire.”

TM: Hold on now. The New York Times was not insulting me when they called my writing “fratire.” In fact, they said I invented a new literary genre, one that defines a whole new generation of writers and readers. How is that an insult?

Yes, the brave new world of Two and a Half Men, Maxim, and Ketel One ads:

I think that this isn’t exactly a new genre…unless you think that the needs, feelings, and emotions of young white dudes has been an underserved artistic destination for these last, um, 2,000 years.

Sigh. On y va

The Frisky: Are you a “misogynist”?

TM: Complete bulls**t. A misogynist is someone who hates women. I love women. Everything I do is to impress women. Without women, I wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Plus, half my fans are women. The people who call me misogynist are the ones who haven’t read or engaged my writing, and are just looking for a bogeyman to attack.

The Frisky: In your stories, women throw themselves at you. How many women have you slept with, and what advice do you give men on women?

TM: I have no idea how many women I’ve slept with. Probably more than 300, probably less than 600? I don’t keep count, because that would be super creepy.

Some women absolutely do throw themselves at me. I think part of it is that there are always some women that are into rich, famous, and powerful men. Then there is the artist aspect. Half my fans are women, and they are fans because they love my writing. There is the masculine thing; I am one of the few people in media who is unapologetically masculine, and that’s very attractive to some women.

You know? He’s not a misogynist. Just a narcissist living in his own, private world where women flock to him to give him blowjobs, sexy girls (the only real girls: see Amanda Hess’ brilliant “Anatomy of a Tucker Max Joke“) never think he’s being insulting to him, and “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” is…

…an awesome and groundbreaking movie, and great art always finds its way.

Box Office total, after two weeks: $960,425.

But wait! Ol’ Tuck has an excuse for that!

It may not hit at the theater, but it will hit on DVD, and hit big.

Yeah, you and Joe Francis, amigo. Funny the company you keep.

by

You Win Some, But You Lose Many, Many Others…

Categories: bitterness, i heart oppression, media tool kit, rape is hy-larious, your rda of misogyny

Double header of media mayhem!

First, the good news:

Roman Polanski lost the first round yesterday in his battle to avoid extradition to the US for having sex with a 13-year-old girl in 1977.

Already locked in a Zurich cell for the last dozen days, Polanski learned that he will remain incarcerated for an extended period after the Swiss Justice Ministry rejected his plea to be released from custody.

Swiss authorities said they feared he might leave the country if released. The director of film classics such as Rosemary’s Baby and Chinatown has been wanted by US authorities since fleeing sentencing 31 years ago.

“We continue to be of the opinion that there is a high risk of flight,” said the ministry spokesman Folco Galli.

He said the threat was too great for the government to accept bail or other security measures in exchange for the release.

Oh, and by the way? If you had any doubt remaining that this guy wasn’t a megadouche? Or that he had somehow made some recompense? Feast your eyes on this:

Roman Polanskiwas to pay at least $500,000 to Samantha Geimer, the victim in his 1977 child-sex case, under a settlement in a civil suit Ms. Geimer later filed against him, The Los Angeles Times reported over the weekend. Mr. Polanski, right, agreed to the settlement in 1993, but as of 1996 had not made the payment, according to court records provided to the news media in response to requests for access to the old case. It remained unclear whether the settlement was ever paid, though Ms. Geimer was still trying to collect as of 1996, by which time accrued interest had pushed the amount to more than $600,000, according to the court records.

Sheesh.

But don’t worry, the news can always get worse…especially when it’s the NY Daily News:

A shocked judge demanded prosecutors explain why they asked him to allow a prominent Manhattan therapist to return to the home where she’s accused of
slashing her husband Tuesday.

“I’m going to send her home to a 79-year-old husband when it’s alleged she stabbed him with knives?” Manhattan Criminal Court Judge Anthony Ferrara asked prosecutors.

“You’re assuring me he’s going to be safe, that this piece of paper is going to protect him from knives?” he said, after granting a “limited” order of protection allowing Joyce Poster-Lederman, 64, to return home.

Funny how people never seem to worry that it’s “just a piece of paper” when it’s a woman who’s being covered by it. Don’t believe me? Check out this site about orders of protection in New York:

You have been arrested because you got into a fight with your girlfriend or wife. Maybe there is a reasonable explanation or your girlfriend does not want to “press charges.” Unfortunately, at this stage it doesn’t matter. You are now before a judge and whether or not you are released, you must completely stay away from the complainant.
[…]
A “full” order of protection or “restraining order” is a an order by the court preventing you from having any contact at all with the complainant or alleged victim of a crime. This could mean that if you live together you may not enter the home. Alternatively, the police will arrange a time for you to enter and get some of your things. You will not be able to call the complainant or talk to the complainant even if she calls you. The burden placed upon you is quite severe.

Yeah. Imagine, not being able to see the woman–please note, it was assumed to be a woman who was the victim–because you beat her up! Oh, the humanity!

Which is kind what the order is trying to protect, ya know?

by

Rapist, International Fugitive Arrested: Media Aghast

Categories: don't get your panties in a bunch, monday media watch, Outrage, privilege stories, rape is hy-larious, supremely sexist, your rda of misogyny

I will preface this by saying I like Roman Polanski’s movies, at least the ones I’ve seen–Rosemary’s Baby, Frantic, The Pianist, and especially Chinatown; I saw a restored print of it ten years ago that was almost a religious experience.

His sudden arrest in Switzerland over the weekend has stunned the world’s artistic community. A true cinematic artist, one who’s long-suffered and even been forgiven by his victim, opinion seems to be that…the man is a rapist and why the fuck are we having this conversation?

Yeah. Rapist. He didn’t “have sex” with a 13-year old girl. He raped her. Well, first he got her drunk and high on quaaludes. Then he raped her.

Don’t believe me? Check out the Smoking Gun’s transcript of her testimony. I looked at it for the first time on Sunday. It made me ill.

Predictably, the comments at the New York Times website were full of fail. A lot of people seem to feel that he’s “suffered enough.” They base this, I guess, because he hasn’t been allowed to re-enter the United States since he fled in 1977. Instead, he’s had to content himself with making lots of money directing movies in Europe and living in France.

Ya know, I just got back from France. That’s really not a hardship assignment.

The latest bit of doucheoisie posturing is this:

Nearly 100 entertainment industry professionals, including the movie directors Pedro Almodovar, Wong Kar Wai and Wim Wenders urged in a petition that Mr. Polanski be release, saying: “Filmmakers in France, in Europe, in the United States and around the world are dismayed by this decision.”

Ronald Harwood, who won an Oscar as screenwriter of “The Pianist,” which Mr. Polanski directed, said: “It’s really disgraceful. Both the Americans and the Swiss have miscalculated.”

Jack Lang, a former French culture minister, said that for Europeans the development showed that the American system of justice had run amok.

“Sometimes, the American justice system shows an excess of formalism,” Mr. Lang said, “like an infernal machine that advances inexorably and blindly.”

One wonders, however, if Wong Kar Wei, Wim Wenders, or Pedro Almodovar would feel comfortable leaving a prepubescent female relative unattended around Roman Polanski. Or if they’d be arguing about the “great artist” exemption for a shocking act of rape if it were their 13-year old daughter.

Liss McEwan, as usual, hits it right on the head:

Very few, if any, of the people who have publicly defended Polanski, or who have worked with him, make it their business to champion or associate themselves with admitted child rapists. They make an exception for Polanski for the same reason exceptions have been for other famous, artistic men – directors, writers, actors, comedians, singers, musicians, dancers, choreographers, painters, sculptors, photographers – who have been known to sexually assault women and/or children: Because geniuses get special dispensation.

Because there’s only one Roman Polanski.

So goes the breathless defense of the artiste, while the flipside of that particular coin, because thirteen-year-old girls are a dime a dozen, goes unspoken.

So yeah. Overaggressive prosecution! Of a child molester! Who admitted to it! That’s overzealousness, all right! Just remember, as long as you can paint a nice picture or make a good movie, you get to rape young girls!

But not boys. That would be sick.

by

Now Let Us Abhor Wicked Men

Categories: the patriarchy: you can't live with it....that is all, your rda of misogyny, Your RDA of Outrage

I haven’t had much to say about the Rihanna incident–where for “incident”, I invite and encourage you to read “vicious beating inflicted upon her by an depraved, jealous boyfriend.” Like a lot of folks I was appalled at the light sentence he received, incensed that once again money and fame insulate men from the consequences of their actions (but said money and fame didn’t do squat for Rihanna) and moved on to the latest outrage.

Turns out, today everything old is new again! Because Chris Brown has kicked off his rehabilitation tour! (You know, the one where a douchebag guy goes on the talk shows, displays a vetted-level of contrition, promises to never do that again, mentions Jesus somewhere, and is immediately rehabilitated in public opinion so you never have to feel guilty about listening to/voting for/paying $12 bucks* to watch him again.)

Chris has hit upon an interesting rehab tactic, however: he claims he doesn’t remember assaulting Rihanna:

King, whose interview airs on Wednesday night on CNN’s “Larry King Live,” asked Brown if he could remember the event, and the singer told him “no.”

“I just look at it like, wow, I’m in shock, because, first of all, that’s not who I am as a person, and that’s not who I promise I want to be,” Brown said in a video posted on CNN’s website. “So when I look at the police reports or hear about the police reports, I just don’t know what to think.”

Hey, dude, guess what: that fucking is who you are as a person. A person who beats his girlfriend viciously and repeatedly. Even if you “can’t remember” doing it.

Separately, Brown told People in a story for the issue on newsstands Friday that he still loves Rihanna. “I never fell out of love with her. That just wouldn’t go away,” Brown said.

Well, that seems to be the problem, since the assault started

…when Rihanna found a text message on Brown’s phone from “a woman who Brown had a previous sexual relationship with,” according to CNN’s story.

Yeah, he never fell out of love with her, provided he could get some on the side. And when the woman he “loved” argued with him about that, he attacked her. He assaulted her. He choked her. He bit her.

Brown, 20, said he was distraught the night of the event and “broke down” after he told his mother, who herself was a victim of an abusive relationship.

His mom, Joyce Hawkins, told People that Brown’s confession was “the most painful moment of my life,” and sitting with her son on Larry King’s program, she said she was “totally shocked.”

“I know that Chris has never, ever been a violent person. Never,” Hawkins said.

I’m supposed to say something sympathetic here about the cycle of abuse. And honestly, I am sympathetic–there’s no question that children who are abused, or whose parents have an abusive relationship, are more likely to abuse other people. But that sympathy kind of sputters to an abrupt halt when it includes putting a horrific beatdown on a woman. One that you claim you love.

I mean, it’s not like Chris Brown was without resources to help him get over the abuse he’d suffered.

As for Ms. Hawkins…well, see above. And below:

But a story accompanying CNN’s video cites a probation report for Brown stating he and Rihanna had two other abusive incidents: one a verbal argument in which Rihanna slapped him and he shoved her, and a second in which he broke the windshields of a rented car while she was with him.

Yeah. Never violent at all.

Of course, the thing is…the thing is. Bloggers like me will write about this. Lots of women and well-thinking men will get outraged. People will be upset. Hell, Rihanna will even do a revenge song about Chris Brown.

And he’ll probably go on ultimately like it never happened. And the next time some rich and powerful douchebag beats his girlfriend, he’ll go on TV and do his contrition waltz and the rich and powerful douchebag interviewers will pronounce their absolution and it will all go on and on and on again.

Because they know they can wear us down with all the other outrages they throw at us every day, while their patience seems unlimited.

by

Monday Media Watch: The Grey Lady Strikes Again

Categories: monday media watch, really, ross douthat: what's he know, your rda of misogyny

Greetings, ducks! Today, on Monday Media Watch, a special double-hit from our favorite source of all the news the establishment deems worthy to print, the New York Times!

First, let’s talk the economy! I’ll wait while you finish crying. There, there.

It’s bad, right? I myself am an underemployed computer worker, which is why I have so much time to write internet screeds. But do you know who has it worse than me? Did you guess men? Because the Times sure did!

We’ve pointed out before that that recession has disproportionately hurt men, who are more likely to work in cyclically sensitive industries like manufacturing and construction. Women, on the other hand, are overrepresented in more downturn-resistant sectors like education and health care.

Casey B. Mulligan noted, for example, that for the first time in American history women are coming close to representing the majority of the national workforce. It would of course be a bittersweet milestone, given that it comes primarily as a result of men’s layoffs.

The data is actually very interesting–it is in fact true that men are getting laid off more than women. The article linked in the quote has some ideas on why:

Women tend to be employed in areas like education and health care, which are less sensitive to economic ups and downs, and in jobs that allow more time for child care and other domestic work.

But is that the only reason? Or is it also that, well, women make a lot less?

 ________________________________________________________________________
Male Female
_____________________________ _____________________________
Number Mean income Number Mean income
Age and year with ___________________ with ___________________
income Current 2007 income Current 2007
(thous.) dollars dollars (thous.) dollars dollars
________________________________________________________________________
15 YEARS OLD AND OVER
2007 104,789 $47,137 $47,137 105,230 $29,249 $29,249
2006 103,909 46,677 48,001 104,582 28,416 29,222
2005 102,986 44,850 47,635 104,245 26,261 27,891

CY 2007 data

Even when you factor out women working part-time jobs, the median wage gap between full-time male and full-time female employees was still almost $10,000 a year. (see page 14 of the pdf.)

So maybe that’s another reason that women aren’t losing their jobs as fast–they’re cheaper to keep on.

Of course, some things never change:

When women are unemployed and looking for a job, the time they spend daily taking care of children nearly doubles. Unemployed men’s child care duties, by contrast, are virtually identical to those of their working counterparts, and they instead spend more time sleeping, watching TV and looking for a job, along with other domestic activities.

Speaking of things that don’t change: Ross Douthat is still kind of a tool! Today he bewails the fact that nobody likes Judd Apatow’s new movie–not because it’s not that good, but because it’s too conservative:

Don’t laugh. No contemporary figure has done more than Apatow, the 41-year-old auteur of gross-out comedies, to rebrand social conservatism for a younger generation that associates it primarily with priggishness and puritanism. No recent movie has made the case for abortion look as self-evidently awful as “Knocked Up,” Apatow’s 2007 keep-the-baby farce. No movie has made saving — and saving, and saving — your virginity seem as enviable as “The 40-Year Old Virgin,” whose closing segue into connubial bliss played like an infomercial for True Love Waits.

Oh yeah, Knocked Up sure makes keeping your baby look glamorous and wonderful–plus you get to be the reason a 30-year old man finally decides to grow up! And The 40-Year Old Virgin tells us that woman can be the reason a…40-year old man finally grows up. Which is a great deal, if you’re not the one who’s the lady.

Somehow I don’t think that ever crossed Ross’s mind.

by

The Second Awakening: Special Mobile Edition!

Categories: all about me, silly blather, travels with CL, your rda of misogyny

Welcome again, ducks! Today’s post comes to you live from Amtrak! I am on my way to visit my parents, and as we are a Green outfit here at TSA, we’re riding mass transit. I am writing this on my trusty blue Acer Inspire One, which I bought for the trip to Thailand and has become my indispensable travelling companion–it fits in all my purses, and with the wireless broadband modem, I can blog anywhere!

Speaking of that trip, I passed through a large swath of Asia during it, and in honor of the first post I’ve written at 50 miles per hour, I thought I’d share some impressions of sex roles and segregation I gathered on the way.

Our first stop was Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates. We only were there to transfer flights–if you’re flying to India or Thailand, I highly recommend Etihad Airlways; they spare no expense, the planes are comfortable even in coach, and the food was actually good. But even that brief layover gave me a sense of the character of the place. There were women working, but mostly as servers; the salesmen we saw at the various stores were, well, men. Abu Dhabi is a crossroads in the Persian Gulf, so we saw all varieties of dress, from full burqas to women in completely Western dress. (The flight attendants on Etihad, though, wore these odd combination pillbox hats and veils.) The bathrooms were a bit different; there was an attendant/chaperone, and they follow the British custom of having full-own rooms with doors instead of stalls.

One definite difference: the metal detectors were sex-segregated, to make sure that you were only touched by someone of the same gender. (This was to be a recurring theme, we shall see, and one that usually left me pretty worried.)

India: Saying anything authoritative about India is an excercise in futility; it’s too big, too varied, too everything. Our tour was exclusively in the northern part, so there were more Muslims there than other parts of India; again, there was a lot of variety in how Muslim women dressed, though when we visited the Jammu Mosque in Delhi, I saw quite a few people in burquas.

Indian standards of modesty are different than those found in America: bare bellies are fine (and an artifact of wearing a sari, as I know now–I bought two), but shoulders and knees should be covered. Both my boyfriend and I had to don ceremonial, wildly-patterned caftans when we visited the Jammu Masjid; once again, the metal detectors and clothing attendants were strictly sex-segragated.

Indian business and commerce are far more completely dominated by men than I was used to. We did meet several businesswomen, but almost exclusively in hotels; in stores, and the various “local craftsman” factories we were taken to by our guides (so we could be browbeat for 20 minutes in the hope of buying a rug/inlaid marble table/block printed cloth–the guide got a commission, of course), the people who did the talking were always male. As were all our guides; come to think of it, I think all the Indian guides I saw were male, as were a majority of the servers in restaurants.


Plate 1: The Author contemplates that the most beautiful building in the world was built for a dead woman.

Moreover, the quintessential picture of Indian poverty, I am sad to say, is a woman with her children. While I’m sure I saw some men begging–I certainly saw many, many poor people of both sexes; in India, if a space is flat, somebody’s living on it–the people who approached us were almost universally women. (On the other hand, the people who tried to sell us overpriced trinkets while we waited on various lines were exclusively male.) Every public bathroom I went to in India had an attendant; I’m not sure if that was always true for my boyfriend, but it was for me. These were very poor women (or heartbreakingly, little girls) who handed you a napkin to use to wipe yourself in exchange for a small tip; we usually gave them 50 ruppes, around a dollar. I can’t speak with any sure knowledge, but I would hardly be surprised to find that these women were Dalits.

On our way out of Indira Gandhi Airport (the first place I ever saw a traffic jam of luggage carts), we once again were run through sex-segregated metal detectors. These were more elaborate than the ones in Abu Dhabi; you were in a completely screened-off area, where you got wanded by the guard. Of the proper sex, of course.

Perhaps nothing captures the attitudes I encountered in India better than this: I was the one who booked the trip, who paid for it, who had negotiated with the tour company. When we arrived in Delhi, my name was on the card the tour representative held up at the airport exit. Yet when we got in the car–I was sitting right behind the rep–he turned to my boyfriend and said, “So, sir, is this your first time in India?”

Invisibility and being pushed around by men were the hallmarks of the trip for me.

Cambodia: Once we left India, we noticed a marked change in the presence of women in business–in that we actually saw several. Men still did most of the jobs that involved talking, including guide to foreign tourists. Like India, my boyfriend was spoken to first and more often.

I have no idea what the rules for the separation of the sexes are in Cambodia, but there seemed to be something subtle going on around us: our guide, Mr. K, constantly talked about the pictures of the apsara, or dancing girls that you see in bas-relief everywhere on the Angkor temples. He was often wistful about it, whispering: “Aspara. Dancing girls. Very beautiful girls.” We suspected dating was pretty complicated in Cambodia.

Plate 2: Mr. K wants you to know he feels nothing for these women. Nothing!

Thailand: We passed through Thailand twice, actually: once, very briefly, on the way to Siem Reap in Cambodia, and then of course of the Purpose of the Visit. Thailand, least in Bangkok and Suvarnabhumi Airport is huge, and more modern than LAX or Newark Liberty; if not for the presence of signs in Thai, you’d hardly know you weren’t in America.

Plate 3: It’s like Los Angeles, just with worse traffic.

In Thailand we finally saw something approaching gender equity. Women were firmly entrenched in the workplace, at about the same proportion that you find in America. Men talked to me–sometimes even first!–and women were definitely assertive, at least to me.

That isn’t to say that there wasn’t a lot of sexism; there was. Thai (or at least Bangkok) culture has something resembling a mix of 50s-style mores, plus a thousand years of Buddhism, plus modern capitalistic ruthless. My nurses told me, for example, that it was still considered somewhat risque for women to smoke–I mean, holy Mad Men!

But at least in Thailand (and Cambodia) I could pee by myself; there weren’t any bathroom attendants. And the metal detectors were unisex.

This is the face of progress, ducks: a man being wanded by a female security guard.

by

The Balcony Is Closed

Categories: media tool kit, the male ogle, your rda of misogyny

You probably think your humble blogeuse never does anything but write proposals and gather outrage for her next post. On the contrary! Like many denizens of A Great American Metropolis, I occasionally venture out of the apartment to do–stuff. Like eat Chinese food! Or go to movies!

On Friday I went out to see a festival of independent short films. (For independent read student.) Normally, an evening screening films is a pleasure to me–why, I’ve even sat through Robert Altman double-features and left feeling elated. (Confused and strangely unconfined by narrative, but elated.) But last night set my teeth on edge, because I saw a strong thread running through all the films, none of which, I should mention, were directed by women. What could that thread be? Read on to find out! (But, as Sady would say, Hint: THE MISOGYNY.)

Yes, I’m afraid that most of these films were either lady absent or lady silencing or, everybody’s favorite, lady objectifying. Not all the films–for example, there was a cute little Canadian Star Trek parody that was not only funny, but had a woman in it–a woman with actual lines! (This lovely young woman, incidentally, was the only woman in the entire evening’s show that had a direct line of dialogue.) There was a disturbing yet amusing time travel movie that definitely broke new ground in the genre. And there was an amusingly dark animated short about the perils of the workplace.

The rest though, primed me to gun up the outrage engines. There were two films that were montages of film clips that were cleverly edited but didn’t seem to have a real point of view. “The Control Master” was definitely a technical feat–the animation was taken from clip art advertising from the ’50s–but began with the villain stalking the heroine and turning her into a dog. Lovely. The last film before the intermission was a mash-up of video games and afternoon cartoon shows like “She-Ra” that had one good sight gag–the invaders from space were, well, Space Invaders–but mostly seemed to be an excuse to film a heroine in her panties, from behind. Oh, and the reason she and the villain are fighting is because she messed around on him (even if he is a giant cube.)

The film that really set me off, though, was “Funny Guy.” The premise began amusingly enough–a guy telling horribly bad jokes to his bathroom mirror–and our realization that he is a very disturbed young man is–disturbing. So, a good start, if not exactly the most original place to go.

It’s where director Frank Rinaldi takes this that provoked my strong reaction. It turns out that our disturbed young man wants to talk to a prostitute who hangs out across a highway from him, but is too shy. (This is the only woman in the entire film–a prostitute with no lines. Sigh.) He later chases the girl down to confront her, tracks down one of her johns and gets into a confrontation with him, and then later ambushes the john and takes him back to his bathroom. The filmaking in this sequence is tense–we sense imminent violence, especially when our abductor reveals the hideous black fungus (a metaphor for his own disease?) growing on the shower stall walls–with a human ear embedded in it.

Yet this scene deflates, and we next see abductor and abductee share a moment sniffing paint thinner. The john agrees to try and get the woman to talk to his abductor, but when he shyly hides from them the john takes off with her.

The film is disturbing all right, but what disturbed me was that it was ultimately another piece of stalker porn; that once again I had to watch a misunderstood guy who goes nuts and finds the only way to connect to women is to hunt them down. His rage over her “rejection” of him–that seems to be the way he interprets her going off with the other john–echoes nothing but the normal sense of entitlement to women’s bodies that most men feel.

The movie isn’t bad, per se–technically, it’s an accomplished student film. I’m just annoyed that these techniques are put in the service of yet another story where women are stalked, fought over, shared between men, and ultimately purely adjuncts to the plot–a motivating factor, a force of nature, incapable of speaking or acting in their own defence (it’s telling that she’s a prostitute, and thus not even allowed to choose her own sexual partners.) I spoke to the director after the movie–it turns out, ducks, that he was sitting right in front of me–and talked to him about my concerns. (No blood was shed.)

I expect a little misogyny when I go to the movies, because I expect a little misogyny when I step out of my apartment, turn on the tv, or read the newspaper. There are even great films which are profoundly misogynistic–for example, “Taxi Driver.” Scocese’s misanthropic and misogynistic gem from 1976–made at a time when he was battling a cocaine addiction, going through a horrific divorce, and basically “hated women”–remains a tough film to watch. Yet the women in that film–idealized, paternalized, and ultimately hated by DeNiro’s Travis Bickle–retain their own agency–they are people, and make choices. “Taxi Driver’s” awful force of misogyny is only part of its awful force, period–although it is women who inspire Travis’ acts of violence, it’s also clear that these actions are only possible because of a deeper instability in his character.

It might be a lot to ask a student director to approach the skill of a Scorsese; but on the other hand, it’s thirty-three years later, and not exactly difficult to learn about how women feel about, well, anything. That it remains true that the easiest way to give a disturbed character motivation is to have him rejected by a woman is yet another depressing indication of the institutionalized misogyny of your liberal media.

And it’s sad that in a city as liberal and progressive as A Great American Metropolis that the only way to ensure that you will see an independent film directed by a woman is to go to a woman’s film festival.

by

Vessels

Categories: the great woman theory of history, why i blog, your rda of misogyny

My friend Viola is a talented ceramacist. Not, I should mention, a potter–she doesn’t use a wheel. Her art is unique and organic (not to mention wonderful), but she hasn’t thrown a pot in years.

The other day she met a new member of the studio where she makes her art. They got to talking, and he mentioned that he had a dealer and was doing very well. (She later verified that via Google.) Now, like many artists (and bloggers), Viola is ambitious about her art and was immediately intrigued–and interested in how she might be able to network with this guy.

As they talked, he told her that he was putting together a group of artists and wondered if she might want to join? Of course she was interested, but–being a person of fierce integrity–she made sure to show him her work first. They talked for a while and agreed that her work really wouldn’t work with the rest of the show–but, the guy asked, could she throw some vessels for him? And it gradually dawned on Viola that all he wanted was her to make a lot of vessels for him to paint.

I find it strangely apt that this–let’s be fair–clueless tool would want her to make vessels for him. (Presumably narrow-necked for maximum–never mind.) I won’t belabor the obvious: that for centuries women have been seen as nothing but vessels for men–convenient receptacles for them to empty their important, creative work into–a holding pen for their serious ideas to gestate.

You don’t have to be a radical feminist to see that the idea of women being the non-creative side of birth as being a bit skewed.

Viola turned him down, for reasons both practical–she’s far too out of practice to make pots quickly with the quality she’d want–and personal: the guy was being completely exploitative of her. Because she’s quite capable of making her own art, thanks, and has no desire to be this guy’s vessel.

But hearing the story from her made me think about art, and my art (if that’s what I’m doing here is), and women in art. My favorite painting in the entire world is Manet’s Le dejeuner sur l’herbe (The Luncheon on the Grass):

It hangs in the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, and I always make a point of visiting it whenever I’m there; the canvas is enormous, and the vibrancy of the light–it never comes through in prints–is astonishing and always makes me smile.

But as much as I love this painting, being who I have become I can’t help but notice that it sums up attitudes towards women that sadly weren’t abandoned to the 19th century. That is, the only two roles available were the the object of the artist’s gaze–the nude woman in the foreground–or supporter, like the woman who is bathing in the background. Both fundamentally passive roles; how few of the works of the great masters show women doing anything other than, perhaps, resisting the rape of an overly amorous Olympian?

Of course, you can go another layer. The nude woman in Le dejeuner sur l’herbe is Manet’s longtime model, Victorine Meurent (though in an early example of Photoshopping, that’s her head on a more voluptuous model’s body.) Meurent was the model for Manet’s notorious Olympia, and that painting’s shocking subject–it certainly seems to depict a courtesan–led people to conclude, wrongly, that she herself must have been a prostitute.

In fact, she was an artist, and a successful one at that–she exhibited several times at the Salon des Artistes–although only one painting of hers is conclusively known to survive. In later life she was inducted into Societé des Artistes Françaises. She called herself an artist until she died.

I think of Victorine Meurent–the famous half smile, head tilted up in disdain or arch condescension–knowing that the gaze of the Great Man was falling on her and not demuring; bold, passionate yet tempered, willing to fight for her art and even sacrifice her own image in order to get the training she needed. I think of this Object who dared to be her own Subject, a woman born too early, perhaps, and yet still remaining as an enigmatic reminder that history is not always what They tell us it is. I think of her, and Viola, and vessels and painters, models and sculptors. And I write.

1 2