On the (Rest of the) Net.

Rihanna met gala 2015

The red carpet allows women to take up space they wouldn’t normally. [Spook Magazine]

In defence of the Supergirl trailer:

“It’s Supergirl. It’s supposed to be aimed at teenage girls. If you’re not one, and it bothers you that it’s aimed at someone who isn’t you, just think: now you have some understanding of what it’s like to be a teenage girl (or indeed, grown woman) watching another TV show/movie/video game trailer and thinking ‘oh right, another TV show/movie/video game aimed at men.'” [Den of Geek]

A love letter to Betty Draper. [Buzzfeed]

Deconstructing the effort that goes into being Kim Kardashian. [The Atlantic]

Kardashian’s Selfish calls to mind “another struggle of a young girl inventing herself in and out of the spotlight amidst Southern California insanity, hedonism, and wealth, but at the epicenter of the most highly charged racial trial of an era; where the black man won at the same time as her body became deformed, shaped, changed.” [Vulture]

If Anna Kendrick’s not a Cool Girl then what is she? [Buzzfeed]

Since when did giving the least amount of fucks become cool? [HuffPo]

Joss Whedon’s reproductive coercion and forced motherhood. [Bitch Flicks]

Not wanting children doesn’t make you selfish: actually, having kids does. [Catherine Deveny]

ICYMI: My (just!) three problems with Married at First Sight.

Image via Mirror.

On the (Rest of the) Net.

KIM-KARDASHIAN-selfie

Analysing Kim Kardashian’s selfies. [Fusion]

Avengers: Age of Ultron is crap because:

“… Whedon can’t get more than five or ten minutes to establish or complicate their motivations, because Marvel is mandating that he not waste screen time on things like the characters’ motivations when he could be shooting ads for their other movies, because Marvel doesn’t care about men, women, or anything except getting you to show up in a few years for the next installment of Avengers.” [Medium]

Why did it handle Natasha Romanoff’s forced sterilisation backstory so insensitively? [Hello, Tailor]

Further to that, an interview with the Black Widow miniseries creator about the feminist implications of said backstory. [io9]

And if we’re calling heroic fictional characters sluts, Black Widow isn’t among them. (Though what even is a slut?) [Flavorwire]

Tavi Gevinson made a comic about the rise of calling celebrities mums/moms. [Rookie]

Post-menopausal women like Hillary Clinton make the best leaders, according to “science”. But what about pre-menopausal women? [Daily Life]

Ratchet reality TV in the age of Shondaland. [Cleo Journal]

Image via HuffPo.

On the (Rest of the) Net.

hard out here lily allen has a baggy pussy balloons

Lily Allen just released the feminist anthem of the year, with accompanying satirical video to boot! [Jezebel]

Though there are some important discussions that need to be had around the racism and objectification of the video. Is accessorising with scantily clad black women in the name of parody still using black culture as a commodity? [Birdee]

Most critiques of the song and video point to yes, just one reason being that it perpetuates the racism of white artists critiquing hip hop and rap music. I would’ve loved to see a black artist come out with this song and video, as it can be interpreted as Allen condemning black music culture without checking her privilege. I also think the themes of the video get a bit muddled: what genre is she trying to critique (“Blurred Lines”, Miley’s rachetism, the rap game…?) or is it the music industry in general? [The Trillest Villain]

Lily’s not the first female pop star to attempt to satirise the genre. [ThinkProgress]

Joss Whedon mansplains feminism. [Daily Life, Jezebel]

Let’s all move to Iceland! [Daily Life]

Intimate partner violence perpetrators in the National Hockey League. [Bitch Magazine]

Some of television’s most historically conservative channels are now the gayest. [Daily Beast]

Lip Mag‘s following in the footsteps of Rookie and Jezebel and releasing their own yearbook. Get 25% off when you preorder.

“The Problem with Sweden’s Feminist Film Rating.” [Daily Life]

You know you’re a feminist on the internet when… [Buzzfeed]

The misogyny of the left. [New Statesman]

ICYMI: I spent Halloween in New York City!

Image via Junkee.

Movie Review: The Cabin in the Woods*.

 

For a movie that was shot in 2009, The Cabin in the Woods surprisingly has its finger on 2012 zeitgeist’s pulse. Zombies, The Hunger Games-esque sacrifice, and a Hemsworth brother. But would you expect anything less from a Joss Whedon film?

I will give Whedon and fellow writer Drew Goddard credit for throwing pretty well every horror movie trope at the wall to see what sticks, as Clem Bastow puts it in her favourable review, but I just found it too unreal to suspend my disbelief, if that oxymoron makes sense.

But overall, I thought the premise was a clever one, it just wasn’t executed to my liking (the group of friends I went with all enjoyed it, however). I thought the group of five youths, which we are told are crucial to the story; the spooky setting; and the stereotypical characters (the whore, the virgin, the scholar, the jock and the clown) worked well to lull the audience into a scary movie state of mind. At this point I thought The Cabin in the Woods would be more like Scream; in what way I’m not entirely sure, as I’m still reeling from the violent severing of this idea from my imagination by the second half of the film.

This is where every horror movie villain, with an emphasis on the super natural, comes into play as the characters realise that the “inbred, redneck zombies” aren’t the only terrors they have to deal with: there’s some kind of government body orchestrating the events not just at the cabin, but in similar settings all over the world, whose employees take bets on which villain will be the death of them (head of the operation Hadley has his heart set on meremen. This will later come back to haunt him.) and offer up each fallen archetype as a sacrifice. Any similarities with The Hunger Games (sacrifice! Surveillance! A Hemsworth!) end here, though, when it is revealed that the sacrifices are for anything but the government: they’re to prevent the ancient gods from revolting and overrunning the earth as they did in ancient times.

The voice of reason, Truman (a reference to The Truman Show?), seems to be uncomfortable with his role in the sacrifice, and asks a fellow worker, “Should you really get used to monsters, magic and zombies?” It’s a poignant commentary on our desensitisation to violence: that the government is so willing to offer up five innocent youths as a sacrifice for the greater good is both sickeningly common and, for the sake of the story, noble. This is a sentiment Sigourney Weaver, who makes a fan-boys wet dream surprise appearance as The Director, reiterates at the bitter end.

Proving the virgin stays alive til then (in the vein of Scream’s Sidney Prescott and Halloween’s Laurie Strode, “the virigin’s death is optional, just as long as it’s last” and she—it’s always a she, because women are the ones who should suffer for the rest of their species’ carnal sins, right?—suffers), Dana and stoner Marty (the fact that his pot-smoking cancels out the effect the government’s manipulation has on him could be seen as a pro-stoner statement) piece together the fact that they’re trapped in some kind of “reality show”, and that Dana’s basement reading of a young girls’ diary from 1903 in which her father murders her family was the “choice” the group made as to which villain(s) would come after them. Later, when the two find a loophole and break into the government headquarters, they come face to face with just how many other options they could have “chosen” in the basement.

This is where I think The Cabin in the Woods failed. It was just too much. I loved that they used Anna Hutchison’s Jules as a modern-day Tatum Riley or sorority girl CiCi from Scream and Scream 2, respectively, and Chris Hemsworth, who at the time was a little known Aussie actor, and is now an avenging megastar, as the Janet Leigh or Drew Barrymore of the effort. I also loved that unless the characters “transgress” and buy into the tropes they’ve been manipulated to succumb to, they can’t be punished”. Stoner Marty points this out when he marvels at Jule’s sudden sluttiness and Hemsworth’s Curt’s alpha-male act. I think they could have played a bit more off of this, or the reality TV angle, instead of going the whole hog with government cover-ups, supernatural massacres and ancient god uprisings. Sure, it’s been done before, but I think The Cabin in the Woods had the potential to be the best in this genre. Instead, it’s created a genre of its own. To some, this is better.

*Blanket spoiler alert.

Related: The Hunger Games Review.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Feminism!

Elsewhere: [TheVine] The Cabin in the Woods Movie Review.

Image via IMDb.

On the (Rest of the) Net.

 

Mia Freedman on Elle’s “weird, weird choice of cover model” in Miley Cyrus for their August 2009 issue:

“Who’s next? Bindi Irwin for Harper’s Bazaar? Stop it, someone is probably organising that right now as I type. Anyway, so while I was still tut-tutting over the fact that she was ON the magazine, I came to the story inside and nearly lost my lunch. Not only did I find the clothes grotesquely inappropriate (nanna-alert!), I was disturbed by the poses. In one shot, she’s got her vagina thrust up to the camera with her stomach exposed.

“In a couple of others, she’s lying back as if waiting for… well, you know what she’s waiting for.”

Girl with a Satchel on Lara Bingle, Kristy Fraser-Kirk and “sexism in the Australian Media”, while Nicole Richie’s Who wedding cover story (out today) is a “fairytale story” of “redemption”.

Why “we need more vampire slayersjust not more Buffy”:

Buffy made a bold statement in the context of 1990s pop culture: What if this tiny blonde girl, who looks like the victim in every horror movie ever, is actually the monster-killer? What if she’s badder and tougher than everyone else? What if she’s secretly grappling with the weight of the world because she’s the only one who can save us all?

“Whedon often talks about the idea for the original Buffy movie coming from the image of a girl running from a monster, like in every other horror film—but then it turns out she’s actually hunting the monster, and she catches it by surprise. Because she’s not just your typical sacrificial cheerleader.

“That was a radical idea in 1992, and even in 1997. I would be very sad to think it would still be radical in 2012, or whenever this film comes out.”

Questionable scenes in Disney films.

Let’s Drink Tea and Get Laid references last week’s skinny-shaming post in her thoughts on body image, “property” and ownership.

Rachel Hills has some insightful notes on introversion versus extroversion, stemming from The Atlantic’s “Caring for Your Introvert”, which was featured on last week’s “On The (Rest of the) Net”.

Tiger Beatdown on the gender double standards on Glee:

“… Being attacked for being an effeminate man is terrible, and we’ll talk about it and come to a resolution, but being a masculine woman means you should just get used to being everyone’s punching bag.”

Jezebel uncovers “The Surprising Facts About Who’s Hot”, according to scientific studies in David Perrett’s book, In Your Face. So it’s totes, like, factual and shit.

Book Review: American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis.

 

When I heard Bret Easton Ellis was coming to Melbourne for the Writers Festival, I was intrigued to hear him speak in person, to say the least.

My first, and only, exposure to Easton Ellis prior to reading American Psycho was his 1998 release, Glamorama. I had high expectations for that book, and I was sorely disappointed. I found it too fast paced and celebrity-obsessed which, granted, was the point of the story. However, the graphic depictions of violence (a plane crash with flying pieces of sheet metal decapitating whole rows of passengers, anyone? Or how about a massive miscarriage followed by internal haemorrhaging and subsequent death of the main character’s, Victor Ward, girlfriend?) and sex were far too much.

So needless to say, I was very apprehensive about entering into a literary relationship with American Psycho, but I wanted to at least have read Easton Ellis’ most famous work before seeing him live. (Alas, this is not meant to be, as tickets to his talk sold out within minutes of going on sale! As he, and Buffy creator Joss Whedon, whose talk also sold out, are the only writers I’m interested in seeing at this years surprisingly uninspiring Melbourne Writers Festival, I guess I’ll be giving it a miss this year.)

This time around, however, I was pleasantly surprised.

Again, American Psycho is hard to get into initially, as it jumps straight into a boys night out with protagonist Patrick Bateman and his equally materialistic and über-boring posse of yuppie acquaintances (Bateman is too narcissistic to have actual “friends”). But after persevering up to the first kill, I liked what I read.

Even squirming along Struggle Street during the gory descriptions of the murderson public transport, no less!was still a fairly enjoyable literary journey. To give you a taste of just how well Easton Ellis does horrific homicide in print, here’s a description of Bateman’s first kill:

“… I reach out and touch his [the bum’s] face gently once more with compassion and whisper, “Do you know what a fucking loser you are?” He starts nodding helplessly and I pull out a long, thin knife with a serrated edge and , being very careful not to kill him, push maybe half an inch of the blade into his right eye, flicking the handle up, instantly popping the retina.

“The bum is too surprised to say anything. He only opens his mouth in shock and moves a grubby, mittened hand slowly up to his face. I yank his pants down and in the passing headlights of a taxi can make out his flabby black thighs, rashed because of his constantly urinating in the pantsuit. The stench of shit rises quickly into my face and breathing through my mouth, down on my haunches, I start stabbing him in the stomach, lightly, above the dense matted patch of pubic hair. This sobers him up somewhat and instinctively he tries to cover himself with his hands and the dog starts yipping, really furiously, but it doesn’t attack, and I keep stabbing at the bum now between his fingers, stabbing the backs of his hands. His eye, burst open, hangs out of its socket and runs down his face and he keeps blinking which causes what’s left of it inside the wound to pour out like red, veiny egg yolk. I grab his head with one hand and push it back and then with my thumb and forefinger hold the other eye open and bring the knife up and push the tip of it into the socket, first breaking its protective film so the socket fills with blood, then slitting the eyeball open sideways, and he finally starts screaming once I slit his nose in two, lightly spraying me and the dog with blood, Gizmo blinking to get the blood out of his eyes. I quickly wipe the blade clean across the bum’s face, breaking open the muscle above his cheek. Still kneeling, I throw a quarter in his face, which is slick and shiny with blood, both sockets hollowed out and filled with gore, what’s left of his eye literally oozing over his screaming lips in thick, webby strands. Calmly, I whisper, “There’s a quarter. Go buy some gum, you crazy fucking nigger.” Then I turn to the barking dog and when I get up, stomp on its front legs while it’s crouched down ready to jump at me, its fangs bared, immediately shattering the bones in both its legs, and it falls on its side squealing in pain, front paws sticking up in the air at an obscene, satisfying angle. I can’t help but start laughing and I linger at the scene, amused by this tableau. When I spot an approaching taxi, I slowly walk away.”

Now if that didn’t make you wince and writhe vicariously, there’s also the attacks of several other dogs, the tortures of countless prostitutes, the dissolving of several friends’ bodies in lime, cannibalism, the murder of a child, the capture of a sewer rat to use in later tortures, and in a comical scene that illustrates just how sad and detached Bateman has become in his life of depravity, he feeds his girlfriend (just one of many he has on the go at any given time) a frozen urinal cake coated in chocolate and served in a decadent Godiva chocolate box.

If the reader needs more proof of Bateman’s derangement and obsessive compulsive consumerism, they need only to look at the chapters interspersed throughout the narrative on business cards, sound systems and musical artists of the time (1991), like Genesis, Whitney Houston and Huey Lewis & the News.

Here is another example:

“Another choir, on Lexington, sings ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ and I tap-dance, moaning, in front of them before I move like a zombie to Bloomingdale’s, where I rush over to the first tie rack I see and murmur to the young faggot working behind the counter, “Too, too fabulous,” while fondling a silk ascot. He flirts and asks if I’m a model. “I’ll see you in hell,” I tell him, and move on.

“… vases and felt fedoras with feather headbands and alligator toiletry cases with gilt-silver bottles and brushes and shoehorns that cost two hundred dollars and candlesticks and pillow covers and gloves and slippers and powder puffs and hand-knitted cotton snowflake sweaters and leather skates and Porsche-design ski goggles and antique apothecary bottles and diamond earrings and silk ties and boots and perfume bottles and diamond earrings and boots and vodka glasses and card cases and cameras and mahogany servers and scarves and aftershaves and photo albums and salt and pepper shakers and ceramic-toaster cookie jars and two-hundred-dollar shoehorns and backpacks and aluminium lunch pails and pillow covers…

“Some kind of existential chasm opens up before me while I’m browsing in Bloomingdale’s and causes me to first locate a phone and check my messages, then, near tears, after taking three Halcion (since my body has mutated and adapted to the drug it no longer causes sleepit just seems to ward off total madness), I head toward the Clinique counter where with my platinum American Express card I buy six tubes of shaving cream…”

This kind of stream-of-consciousness and disjointed conflict between the Patrick Bateman that is presented to the outside worldthe one that manages to convince a cop investigating the murder of one of Bateman’s lime victims that he has nothing to do with the disappearanceand the inner workings of his own mind, and even again with the superhuman he becomes when killing, continues and only becomes more frequent as the tale continues.

While there is no finite conclusion to the storyone might guess that Bateman was caught during the murder of a taxi driver, when the tone switches from first person to third person, however it is later revealed that he escaped, but is recognised by another cab driverthat only makes it all the more disturbing.

Easton Ellis is a very cleverthough slightly disturbed; you would have to be to write as graphically and as convincingly as he doesauthor, and I would have loved to hear him speak about his most prolific work.

However, while I rate this one highly, I probably won’t return to, nor enjoy, his other novels.