juushika

Julie took a deep breath and her voice dropped to a murmur. "Girls can wear jeans and cut their hair short and wear shirts and boots because it's okay to be a boy; for girls it's like a promotion. But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading, according to you, because secretly you believe that being a girl is degrading. Why else would you think it's humiliating for Tom to wear a frock?"

"Because it is," I said determinedly.

"But why?" Jule and Sue called together, and before I could think of anything Julie said, "If I wore your trousers to school tomorrow and you wore my skirt, we'd soon see who had the worse time. Everyone would point at you and laugh." Here Julie pointed across the table, her fingers inches from my nose.

"Look at him! He looks just like ... ugh! ... a girl!"

"And look at her"—Sue was pointing at Julie—"she looks rather ... clever in those trousers." My two sisters laughed so hard they collapsed in each other's arms.

—The Cement Garden, Ian McEwan, 55-6

This thought has been on my mind lately for no particular reason; I didn't expect to encounter it in this of all books. I withhold judgement about whether or not I'm glad to see it there until I know how the sex and gender themes play out, but the above excerpt at least I like and pass on to you.

Title: Don't Bet on the Prince: Contemporary Feminist Fairy Tales in North America and England
Editor: Jack Zipes
Published: New York: Routledge, 1989 (1986)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 270
Total Page Count: 89,869
Text Number: 258
Read Because: Contains Tanith Lee's "Wolfland," borrowed from the library
Review: In three sections (following a lengthy introduction), editor Zipes compiles three revised, purportedly feminist takes on traditional fairy tales: Feminist Fairy Tales for Young (and Old) Readers and for Old (and Young) Readers, 17 modern fairy tales from authors like Tanith Lee, Jane Yolen, and Anne Sexton among others, and four pieces of feminist literary criticism on fairy tales. That a work purports to be feminist, however, does not necessarily make it so. Or, rather, a work can claim to be feminist, can aim to be feminist, and still fall short of the mark—as is the case here. First, it's Zipes that drags down the anthology. In his overlong introduction and concluding critical essay, he's given to cumbersome academic dialog and bold leaps of reasoning, a tendency towards form (in place of content) which makes for inscrutable, unsubstantiated arguments. Those arguments are promising, but they beg clearer, more thorough address. The anthology's second weakness is the stories themselves. There are some gems—most provided by the authors mentioned above, and Carter's "The Donkey Prince" and Atwood's "Bluebeard's Egg" also appear on my list of favorites. But there are many stories which fail to push their feminist premises far enough, leaving them open to worrying commentary.

"In none of these tales is marriage a necessity or a goal for young women, rather it is a possibility which may or may not enter their plans. [...] In addition, the lives and careers of the young women are not telologically [sic] shaped by marriage (17)," writes Zipes in his introduction, yet in a surprising number of Prince's stories marriage is presumed—and in more, female energy is focused on male figures, roles, and relationships. The stories that don't fulfill heteronormative goals of romance, marriage, and childbirth often focus on that failure, mourning the sense of loss that accompanies it. For a purportedly feminist anthology, Prince has a surprisingly strong focus on men (even in the title!), and heteronormative standards are nearly inviolate. Perhaps I aim too high (and take too modern an approach) when I wish that Prince didn't constrain its feminism to heteronormative obligate male/female relationships; the fact that it does not, however, makes it limited in scope and depth. And then there's de Larrabeiti's story "Malagan and the Lady of Rascas," in which a husband has his wife made grotesque to force her to remain faithful, and when she does for many years remain faithful—and good, patient, and forgiving—he learns to be a decent human being. A story where men make decisions, women survive ill treatment without complaint or agency, and men reap the rewards of the experience is not feminist—certainly not feminist enough to fit a collection that totes the word so boldly on its cover.

Prince is not all bad—many stories are second rate (not just because of their feminist content, but because they are too far divorced from their source material to be effective retellings), Zipes is a constant irritation, but the other essays are thoughtful (if dated and brief) and there are some intriguing stories in the collection. But the volume aims to be more than this, and it's a lofty goal; that it fails to reach that goal makes it a disappointment. There are better feminist takes on fairy tales out there, even if they don't come in such proud packaging. I don't recommend this one.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

I've been dealing with a lot of (entirely generalized, e.g. unprovoked and unpredictable) anxiety the last few days, which is dying off now thank goodness. As a result, I was in search of some mindless activity for when I wasn't calm enough for active consumption (reading) or production (reviews, posts). And I was up to date in all my favorite TV shows.

So I watched Firefly, because it was available and I had never seen it before.

I'll admit that (not a sin unique to me) I have a habit of doubting popular media. In part because I distrust majority opinion, in part because (the guilty bit) I want to be unique and special and not love the same things as everyone else. So I came to Firefly with some doubts simply because so many folk love it so much. I also had doubts because I've lately been running into a high number of feminist critiques and discussions on rape, some in reference to fiction, or science fiction, or Whedon's work specifically. Who knows why all of this at once—a combination of stumbled upon links and discussion triggering more discussion and the controversies over Dollhouse, no doubt. (That and the fact that Whedon, a self-professed feminist, invites such discussions.)

A partial list of those essays:
A Rapist's View of the World: Joss Whedon and Firefly by allecto / Allecto
Taboos and Tropes: Part II "Rhetoric and Writing about Rape" by Rae Bryant at Fantasy Magazine
Dear Genre Fiction Writers: Quit This Sh*t by K. Tempest Bradford on Jeff Vandermeer's blog
Working in the Dollhouse by Shannan Palma at Feminist SF

I don't agree with the complete contents of all those essays; since I'm not watching Dollhouse, I can make even less comment there. Nevertheless they're all food for thought and having read them I came to Firefly with worries and open eyes.

I found the show just above average in most ways. I've never seen the huge appeal to Whedon, so perhaps I'm just not the ideal audience for his shows. The dialog is clever, Kalyee is a entirely lovely, and the plot had promise—River's story in particular makes me wish that the series had run longer that we might find out more about her in a less frantic and trite method than the film Serenity. On the other hand, the space cowboy theme is patched together (better to take the Cowboy Bebop route, cowboy mentality in a scifi setting; actual cowboy aesthetics are hokey on a space ships), many of the characters are two-dimensional (and some, like Zoe, barely manage that), and the episodic format is wearying: episodic can be done well but here, where a routine starting point undergoes an unexpected twist by the opening credits, then turns into a frolicking adventure, and is tied up within forty minutes, continuing for fourteen episodes in a row, it's not well done—indeed, it's unbelievable.

For the most part, Firefly is witty, unusual pulp, fun if not groundbreaking, and largely harmless. But yes, there are issues of gender and sexism which bother me a bit. They're characters, sections, little niggling things, not the majority of the show. But they're still there, and they bugged me.

There's Zoe, who appears to be a powerful black woman but actually has no personality of her own: she's defined as Mal's second in command and as Wash's wife. As Mal's second, she's a plot point, supporting him and bringing his plans to frutition. As Wash's wife she's a source of contention between Wash and Mal, she's Wash's motivation, and she's wife and sex object which humanizes and sensualizes—no, better, sexualizes—the ship. And that's all she is. Even when Wash directly confronts her (in "War Stories") about the difference between her personal opinion and Mal's opinion, she cannot make one. Zoe totes guns and she makes a clever quip or three about Mal's judgement, but she makes near enough no decision which is strictly her own. (One of the only ones she does make, to return for Mal in "Out of Gas," occurs entirely off screen.) She's powerful only in appearance. In reality, she's barely a character and has no autonomy.

But what really got me is Inara (who is a Companion, akin to a courtesan) and her relationship with Mal. When she first comes on the ship (in flashbacks from "Out of Gas"), she makes it clear to Mal that he is not to enter her shuttle without express invitation and that he is to treat her with respect (specifically: not refer to her as a whore). He agrees and then consistently betrays both of these edicts. This is part of Mal's character as an equal-opportunity asshole, but he claims, in "Shindig," that he respects her even if he doesn't respect her career—not that that stops him from invading her privacy. Inara always has a sharp retort to Mal's disrespect but as the show progresses it becomes obvious that they both harbor affection for the other, culimating in a scene where Inara cries after Mal has sex with another sex worker ("Heart of Gold"). So, get this: an independent, educated, employable woman who has chosen and enjoys her career as a paid companion and a sex worker rightly demands that a man treat her with respect; when he intentionally treats her with disrespect not only is it a sign that he actually cares for her, she also proceeds to fall in love with him.

That doesn't seem so "shiny," to me.

There are other little things, like stupid sexist Jayne who functions as a flimsy foil for asshole but good at heart Mal; con artist Saffon's confrontation with Mal, where he threatens her with sexual violence in guise of a "wedding night" ("Our Mrs. Renyolds"), like Wash's poorly concealed and would-be humorous desire for an wife as subservient as Saffron (Ibid.), the fact that Inara uses "whore" to describe non-Companion sex workers even though she takes offense when called it herself ("Heart of Gold"), and no doubt others which I'm forgetting now.

Is Firefly the scariest anti-feminist show I've ever seen? Goodness, no. It wasn't quite as bad as I was expecting, either, coming to it as wary as I was. And I want to say "feminist issues aside, it can be an enjoyable if mediocre show"—but that's just the point. I know that tearing media to pieces can seem to pull all the fun out of it, but feminist issues should never be set aside, even if they make entertainment somewhat less entertaining. Ignore them, and you tolerate them and allow them to persist. And where sexist media persists, sexist mentality is free to thrive. It doesn't mean boycotting and hating every questionable show or book. It means keeping eyes and mind open and being wary of sexism (and indeed any form of discrimination) and how easily it can slip in, even in the work of a would-be feminist writer, even in the guise of humor or ensemble casts or bickering romances. Being aware of those issues and speaking on them helps to prevent them, in the long run, and that's worth the cost of a little less fun.

(But was Firefly and feminism the best choice for my anxious brain? Not so much. I almost wish I'd been able to take it at face value, for the sake of entirely mindless occupation. Next time I should stick with My Little Pony.)

The reward for finishing horrible books is that you get to write scathing reviews of them. I point back to that review (for Lipstick Jungle) because if you only ever read one of my reviews, it might as well be that one. If nothing else, hopefully it will warn you away from what is probably the worst book I've ever read—worse even than the ones that I couldn't bring myself to finish (Sharp Objects and The Devil Wears Prada spring to mind). There's a wonderful catharsis in pointing out precisely what it was that make the book so bad I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Thank goodness, too, I haven't had the urge to bring it up in conversation since then. Devon hated the book, and he didn't even read it—but he did hear enough of it and about it while I was reading it.

It does beg in me the question, though, of chick lit—is it more harmful than it is harmless? Because that's what Lipstick Jungle was, to be sure. I always say that I will read anything fiction, but the truth is that there are two genres I abhor and will not entertain: chick lit and romance. For some time I've maintained that this is a matter of preference, because I still read books that I would consider to be trashy or simple, easy, almost pointless reading—I just don't like those specific genres and don't read them, but they are just as valid as simple entertainment as bad fantasy and bad YA lit.

But the general consensus on Amazon is that Lipstick Jungle is a 3.5 star book, and 40% of readers gave it a full five stars. Reviewers laud it as "good risque, racy fun" and say that "the novel has a lot of 'you go, girl!' power." It is one thing to find empty, near-thoughtless amusement in a book—like the written version of television. And I can't put words into reviewers's mouths and say that they thought Bushnell's writing was skillful and nuanced. However, when a reviewer writes that she wants to adopt Bushnell's writing style for her emails (oh god) I have to wonder: to they know that the writing is crap, the characters two-dimensional, the storytelling poor? They may not think it's great, but do they think it's good, are they going to try to emulate it?

But, as I mentioned in my review, the worst of Lipstick Jungle is not the horrible writing, but rather the butchered would-be-feminist themes. What a book means—its message, its purpose, its themes—are what readers take away from the text. The themes here lack all subtlety, so I hardly believe that readers are whizzing through the book without seeing them. But Bushnell butchers these themes, substituting cheap, insulting humor for, say, any sense of wit, forward progress, or what could rationally be called feminism. So when readers call it "brilliant" and say "it motivated me," I worry. Writers have power and authority to impact their readers. The themes in Lipstick Jungle are very real, and women meet them head to head every day—sexism and patriarchal structures do not only impact super-powerful businesswomen. Bushnell uses her power to make jokes, belittle people, and forgo constructive change for a reversal of the same sexism that women struggle with.

And people believe it. They read it, they enjoy it, they don't examine it. They find it motivating and empowering—motivating and empowering to limit people to narrow prescripted generalizations. This isn't forgivable, harmless junk reading. These are no moderately interesting themes given half-hearted analysis. Bushnell choses hot topics, and does not approach them half-assed: no, she visibly, loudly does them a huge disservice through reversal and a complete lack of constructive criticism. This is bad—bad in writing, and bad also in meaning.

I haven't read any other chick lit. After my painful experience here, and after finding The Devil Wears Prada too poorly written to finish, I doubt I'll be reading more. So I can't judge the genre as a whole—but if Lipstick Jungle is in any way indicative, then I worry. I worry that we allow and accept trash because it's considered just harmless amusement, when in fact it's not harmless at all. I worry about the women that read it and eat it down without questioning it. Sure, it's not a genre that we can outlaw, and that wouldn't solve the issue anyway. The problem is not only that the literature exists—more precisely, the problem is that the readers do not question or expect better from the writing that they consume. Standing back and adopting the attitude of "if you don't like it, then don't read it" and then ignoring all naysaying is no solution. Perhaps the solution is intelligent discussion—not ignoring the genre, and not accepting it either, but rather pointing out its weaknesses and its position to harm.

Except that I already know that my review, on Amazon at least, will just receive negative reviews and slip to the back of the pile—because I'm overcritical and taking it too seriously, when it's just a bit of harmless "you go, girl!" fun. The attempts at criticism and intelligent discussion—and there are quite a few of each, on Amazon—are pushed aside, and the front page is full of praise instead for a fun and empowering read.

There's an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie has just had her first big breakup with Big and as usual the other girls are going through various romantic and sexual entanglements of their own—except for Miranda, who through the course of the episode grows increasingly frustrated with Carrie's inability to move on and the fact that, well:

All we talk about anymore is Big or balls or small dicks. How does it happen that four smart women have nothing to talk about but boyfriends? It's like seventh grade but with bank accounts. What about us? What we think, we feel, we know, Christ! Does it always have to be about them? Just give me a call when you're ready to talk about something besides men.
—Miranda, Sex and the City episode 2.1, Take me Out to the Ball Game

It's a moment that I've always loved—although, of course, immediately afterward Miranda runs into an old ex and is immediately thrown back into her own pain following their breakup, and apologizes to Carrie for not appreciating the full impact that the breakup with Big is having on her life. Which is just the thing, isn't it? Sex and the City was a brilliant show about sexual, romantic, and personal identity which remained largely unapologetic while still being humorous, but for its entire run the focus of the show was not the four female protagonists, but rather the women and their men—who they dated/slept with/married, how it impacted them, how the sex defined them, the problems that arose from such entanglements.

So Miranda makes a good point, but it's a point that is uncut by the series itself.

In a way, that's understandable and acceptable for a show called Sex and the City. In a group of heterosexual women, with sex one of the primary focuses of the show, of course the men they are entangled with would define them and their experiences in the course of the show. However, there are two shows currently running on primetime, Lipstick Jungle (full episodes on NBC.com) and Cashmere Mafia (full episodes on ABC.com). In both of these shows, which are about powerful business women living in New York, many of the plots and much of the characterization revolves around and is defined by men.

To be fair, this is more the case in Cashmere Mafia (ironically my favorite of the two) than it is in the newer Lipstick Jungle. The shows are very similar, but Lipstick (in its two episodes) has already exhibited a somewhat larger focus on plots that are not based on men. However, even with this caveat, I would say that something like 90% of the plots/conflicts/focuses that appear in the two shows are focused on men, or feature men as a driving or antagonistic force: working woman breaks up with working man that can't handle her success; working woman tries to balance her busy work life with her husband and home life; woman has an affair with a younger man; working woman is undermined, frustrated, or doubted in her job by/as a result of male power; working woman tries to reconcile with/get revenge upon/divorce cheating husband; and then, every now and then, working woman redefines product line or working woman deals with published personal slander.

For the record, I realize that men would play a driving force in almost any career woman's life (even a lesbian's!), but especially in the lives of these these 30 and 40-somethings, many married with children, working as execs in male-dominated professions. The fact that some of these plots, even that many of these plots, are male-driven is acceptable and understandable and even necessary. I can't imagine a useful or in any way accurate show about career women that didn't at some point deal with the issue of men's gender stereotypes in the workplace, for example.

But this isn't a case of a few male-driven plots, it's the case of a whole slew of them, a vast majority of them. What does it say about the show writers or us, the consumers, that the vast majority of the plots in a pair of shows about strong career women focus on or are driven by male characters? Even if these women come out on top—and they do—even if they are strong, even if they refuse to give quarter to men as a "superior sex," their stories and their characters are still defined by their dealings with men. If it's not work related, it's social; if it's not social, it's romantic. If these were shows about a group of male execs, we'd never see the same focus on wives and girlfriends and female colleges, especially not to the extent that there are almost no plots that do not involve women. They would be one aspect, one driving force amongst many.

But we can't write or watch a show about women the same way as we write or watch a show about men.

In part, that must be commentary on what it is to be a powerful American businesswomen: women are forced to define their work identities within male-dominated professions, forced to define themselves as both businesswomen and girlfriends/wives/mothers (which are traditionally competing roles), and it's only human nature to define ourselves, regardless of gender, by our sexuality and our romantic relationships. But this obsession with male-driven plots must also be commentary on what we expect women to be—we understand that may of them are by nature of their environment forced to define themselves within the status quo as it exists, which means they must define themselves in relation to men and a patriarchal culture; but we, as writers and as readers, also expect women to continue to define themselves this way, to primarily define themselves this way. A plot that doesn't revolve around male influence is somehow incomplete: it lacks emotion, it lacks conflict, it lacks personal growth. It's inadequate. It's unacceptable.

Don't get me wrong. I continue to watch these shows—Sex and the City as well as Cashmere Mafia and Lipstick Jungle—because I like them. I just wish that they could be more. The characters are interesting and also admirable, and for all of the focus on who the women are as defined by male influence, the women come out as both strong and flawed—which is to say that the show is at once empowering and identifiable. There's also some great outfits, which is a personal vicarious joy. But it saddens me that well-casted and enjoyable and promising shows like this could be more if they would rely more upon their female characters—put some faith in them to be interesting and meaningful even when not given some sort of masculine foil to be compared to or to inspire them towards growth. It reminds me a bit of Ally McBeal—interestingly the protagonist was less powerful and less self-assured (by a long ways) and yet, despite the rich romantic sideplots and the influence of male characters, Ally grew because of her boyfriends but also because of her job and her personality. Perhaps it was because there were male protagonists in the show, so it never made sense to default to male-influenced plots, but: It is certainly possible to rely on more than male influence to create plot and growth for a female character, and these shows featuring powerful women would well benefit from that knowledge. No matter how large or how justified masculine influence is on the life of a businesswoman, it is not and does not for the purposes of the show need to be the be-all and end-all. There's more to them than that, and I wish that were reflected in these shows.

Is anyone else on my flist watching either Cashmere Mafia or Lipstick Jungle? If so, I'd be very much interested in your opinions of them. As I mentioned above, the shows are also freely available on ABC.com/NBC.com, if you do want to begin watching them. (I watch all my TV online, which is why I miss out on Law & Order but keep tabs on shows like this.)