How many memorable female characters exist outside the Femme Fatale or Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope?

This very long video sparked some friendly internal debate with myself:



(Created by SpareOm, who makes some excellent points, but be warned there are SPOILERS to some great old films)

For those without ten minutes and twenty-nine seconds at their disposal, "Women in Film: Femme Fatale vs. Manic Pixie Dream Girl" argues that the tradition of men imposing their viewpoints in movies often creates a dichotomy of character types for woman: the sexually carnivorous, evil or at least morally ambiguous Femme Fatale, or the sugary, quirky, awkward-but-with-the-gleam-of-magic-in-her-eye Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

Y'know, the age-old "Ginger the Sociopath vs. Mary Ann the Thrift Store Shopping Smiths Fan" scenario.

I'm sure there are those who argue that the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) is the more modern concept, stemming from such bohemian indie girls as Natalie Portman in Garden State and Zooey Deschanel in just about anything. However, Nathan Rabin, the writer who coined the term MPDG, traces their appearance in films as early as Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby, and presumably all the other screwball heroines of the '30s to beyond. Hell, many people think the ultimate MPDG is the other Hepburn's Holly Golightly.

Yet while I often find myself cringing at Deschanel's antics, I certainly loves me some Kate in Bringing Up Baby, and am always quick to defend such spacy dames as Dora Spenlow and Gracie Allen--who, like the classic MPDG stereotype, lighten their male half's perspective, providing a dizzying distraction from the humdrum ordinariness of life that's bogging down the male protagonist.

But maybe the difference here lies in context. George and Gracie are a comedy team, with George as the straight man; if serving as the comic foil to the straight man qualifies you as an MPDG, does that make Costello one to Abbott? It's important to remember that when they tried out their act on stage in Vaudeville, Gracie was to be the straight man, but her comic timing made her a better fit for the ditz.

As for Dora Spenlow, Dickens, well, spoiler, kills her. That's obviously problematic. But maybe I can overlook the fundamental pixiness of her character because before Dickens chickens out and offs her, he let us--and Dora--know that cavorting around like a girlish infant not only wears thin, but can exhaust a partner rather than uplift him. I like Dora because, hey, she's charming (and MPDG's are charming, otherwise their type wouldn't be so popular), but also because she knows that in the long run, you can't live a full life or create a full identity if that's the behavior you're limiting yourself to.

Therefore I find her efforts to become more mature, to take more charge in her life poignant, and wish that Dickens had seen her through rather than just sorta say, "Nah! She's hopeless." I mean, transforming her from a kook who plays with her dog to a refined, composed Agnes Wickfield wouldn't have felt right either, but why not maintain her playfulness while also letting her mature slightly as a person, maybe? No? Stillbirth? Okie-doke.

As for Bringing Up Baby, maybe the commenter "Kathryn" at The AV Club says it best. This is in reply to Rabin's review of Elizabethtown, where he first brought up the MPDG stereotype in reference to Kirsten Dunst's character:

...the endearingly deranged love interest is much more fun in a slapstick romantic comedy than in sad-sack coming-of-age-too-late tales. "Garden State" would have been much improved had Zach Braff been chased by a leopard.

(To which "Bum Russia With Glove" replied "...then mauled and eaten by one. The end.")

Plus, let's face it, Cary Grant's character (along with George Burns and other screwball heroes) has a distinct, fumbling, and awkward persona of his own. The problem with the male characters in modern MPDG movies is that very "coming-of-age" blandness, the drippy moodiness and Vaguely Troubled Past that makes them such unbelievable downers, that, in comparison, make the MPDG look even more shockingly, cloyingly deranged and cutesy.

Now, in the MPDG's defense, very often she asserts her independence, in a sorta-kinda way. I haven't seen the movie, but from what I've read, Kate Winslet's character in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind states up-front that she's sick of men seeing her as a concept and solution to their problems. Yet too often, this growth is only seen in context of how if affects the man. Her maturity is tied up in his maturity, and we end on his personal growth, not hers.

Take this down-and-outer man and also add "chump" in capital letters a block wide, and there stands the male half of the Femme Fatale equation. On the surface, if you ask me which of the two tropes I prefer between Manic Pixie Dream Girl and Femme Fatale, I would automatically go, "Femme Fatale! Femme Fatale!" Because let's face it, just as MPDGs are charming, Femme Fatales are cool. 

It's okay for a female character to be sexy. It's okay for her to be manipulative and evil. It's okay for us to like the Femme Fatale. Of course it's okay to like the MPDG. But it's important to spot icky, encroaching trends that threaten to fetishize and therefore dehumanize what we like in these characters.

And again, the answer lies in how the male character is affected by the Femme Fatale. As the video points out, the male is either absolutely wrecked by the sheer will-power of evil that is his Fatal Female, or his manliness proves stronger than her empowered womanliness, and she repents. Y'know how criticism of Twilight centers around how Bella is a big moody blank of a character, an "insert-yourself-here" cut-out whose unique...somethingness turns the bad boy good? Just reverse the genders, and that's the worst-case scenario for the Femme Fatale.

 I wouldn't lay the whole blame on male filmmakers. They might have started the trend, but I think women can and have perpetuated these stereotypes. Sometimes it's by merely reversing the genders, like Stephanie Meyers did with Twilight, or else they can feed right into the female roles already outlined for them--especially where the Manic Pixie Dream Girl is concerned, which might be why I have more problems with her than the Femme Fatale.

Whereas the Femme Fatale displays an unattainable level of sexiness and awesomeness, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl is deemed attractive because of "imperfect" qualities much easier to imagine having: she's goofy, awkward, and childlike. She's a nerd. She doesn't quite fit in. But boy, how her free spirit flies far above the muck of this world, and it just takes that special guy to realize this and be changed forever! Hell yes, that does sound appealing, for both men and women. The guy gets a cute girl. And the girl gets to be worshipped without having to grow up or develop mature emotions of her own. Both sides totally forget that in their combined efforts to be loved unconditionally, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl has no concrete desires or ambitions of her own.

Yet how many girls idolize Audrey Hepburn based completely on Holly Golightly? Zooey Deschanel's TV show The New Girl, which is the most overt display of MPDG celebration currently around, is created and written by a woman named Elizabeth Meriwether.

So it's not really a question of who's at fault for these stereotypes, but instead how many memorable female characters exist outside either trope?

Unfortunately, we've come to rely so much on the Femme Fatale/MPDG dynamic that a woman who lacks either trait is often written blandly. See Bella Swann. See your basic idealized ingenue. Strong women are still difficult to write for some reason, so we make them sexually aggressive (i.e., evil or morally ambiguous) or spacy goofballs (i.e., infantilized), and say, "Look. They have traits. That's giving them dimension."

Is it simply because in fiction, the broader the character the more interesting? I mean, James Bond certainly isn't a realistic depiction of your average male. But would we want to see the average male take on Goldfinger, while worrying about picking up the dry-cleaning and struggling with a slight pot-belly? Would we? (I suppose you could argue that's where the Get Smart remake and its like comes in).

When I think of well-rounded female characters I like, I find they're mostly deconstructions of those stereotypes. Some prime examples exist in my beloved Thursday night line-up at NBC. On Community, Alison Brie's wide-eyed Annie Edison is far from my favorite character, but I like that they set her up as this cute, cuddly do-gooder with oh-so adorable awkward quirks, only to often have her reveal these quirks as terrifying and signs that she really should mature. A bit condescending, but at least they call her out for it.

Community's Femme Fatale deconstruction, Gillian Jacobs's Britta Perry, has grown into the show's standout character and is certainly my favorite. She's a hilariously flawed individual who still manages to kick ass in her totally bass-ackwards way. She thinks she's tough, righteous, and independent, and she is; but she's relatable because she gets everything so deliciously wrong at the same time.

Because it's a comedy, Community can get away with revealing these women as not being quite the stand-up representations of feminism they think they are, especially since the men are just as flawed and childlike, and just as often called out for it.

Then there's 30 Rock and my beloved Liz Lemon...oh, my beloved Liz Lemon. She's been getting a lot of flack lately for sliding too much into the pupil role to Jack's paternalistic Jack Donaghy, when years have passed and she should move on. But honestly, I think their characters have become so attuned to one another that they both silently acknowledge they're basically on equal footing now. Take this season's finale: Liz tells the very recently divorced Jack that she may not need his advice about children, but she'd like it all the same. She's not doing it for herself, she's doing it for him: Jack never feels better than when he's speechifying, and as a friend she recognizes he needs to feel like Jack again.

Fey's Liz is a wonderful example of a MPDG deconstruction. She's quirky, "adorkable," and funny, but there's nothing manic or pixie-like or dreamlike about her. She's downright mean a lot of the time. She's frankly unsentimental with the men in her life. Some would argue that the writers push too far making her appear unattractive, but then again I'd pull the "it's comedy" card. The fact she's been in several relationships throughout the show's run and that cartoon-pilot-handsome men like Jon Hamm are attracted to her shows they know Liz Lemon is a pretty, appealing woman, but no man's dream insertion.

Leslie Knope on Parks and Recreation does sometimes veer uncomfortably toward MPDG-land, dearly as I love her (which again, is okay). Her boyfriend Ben is likable but rather unexciting, often there only to be amazed by the bubbly insanity that is Leslie. Yet where Leslie differs from the rest of the MPDG ilk is in her clear-cut ambitions, ambitions that drive her far more than her love life ever has on-screen.

And then there's Aubrey Plaza's April Ludgate. Oh man, how I love Aubrey Plaza's April Ludgate. April is the Anti-Manic Pixie Dream Girl, the Mirror Universe Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Unlike your standard MPDG, April isn't girlishly high-spirited, she's glumly self-centered. She's not offbeat, she's just lazy as fuck. April doesn't drink deeply from the beauties of life, she:



Retta's Donna, of course, is a classic femme fatale. Don't deny it.

Actually, perhaps the only character in this line-up that not only defies both MPDG and Femme Fatale stereotyping but also eschews that deconstruction to create her own solid personality is the oft-neglected Anne Perkins on Parks & Rec, played by Rashida Jones.

She's one of the least funny characters on the show, but she's likable and relatable, and feels the most real. Perhaps it's because of Jones's acting, which is always superb, but she's never as cloyingly whimsical as the MPDG despite her sweet character, and never heavily sexualized like the Femme Fatale, despite her beauty. She's not perfect--look at her horrible co-dependent relationship with Andy in the beginning of the show and the current madness that is her relationship with Tom--but you don't have to be perfect to be a good female character. In fact, that's an impossible goal. When you are, you float into what I believe is called "Mary Sue" territory on the internets.

Both the characters on the show and the audience wish Anne could be a bit more interesting, and hopefully someday she will be, and other characters written like Anne. There has to be a way in comedy and drama for a woman to have a distinct character--but not a MPDG or Femme Fatale--while still holding everyone's interest.

In fact, there is a way, and it has been done. Clarice Starling. Jane Eyre. Barbara Gordon (though some MESSED UP things have been thrown her way). Lois Lane.

Like I said, it's fun to be sexy like a Femme Fatale, and as goofy as a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. But we can't continue to have that be the chief attributes of every memorable female character--there needs to be more to them than that. We need the Anne Perkinses. The Clarices. But are they as present as we'd like to think they are?

I ain't being rhetorical here. I invite you, dear reader: who are some of your favorite female characters that defy either category of the Fatale or MPDG? Who are some examples you either like or dislike that do fall into those roles, or lack those qualities but are made bland and uninteresting? I want to know.

Tim Burton's Dark Shadows: Did my low expectations save the day? Kind of.

"He's coming."

**BIG OL' SPOILERS HEREIN**

A few scenes came near to ruining the movie for me. But overall, Burton's consistent gothic mood that prevailed even during some of the goofier scenes, plus a few choice character changes that incorporated surprising elements from the original show, left me more satisfied than I anticipated.

I've been following this project for a while now, what with how I'm an obsessive Dark Shadows fan and all. So I was heartbroken when I saw the idiotic trailer. Then, of course, the collectively crappy reviews came out. My expectations were, well, low. I remembered seeing Sweeney Todd when my expectations were pretty high thanks to fair reviews and my own fangirlish excitement, and I was let down by the lack of humor and cuts to the source material. I think the opposite happened here.

Again, this film is far from flawless. Visually the movie's stunning, but has there ever been a Burton film that wasn't? Aside from his penchant for spirals and saturated colors that can ring a little monotonous, Burton's distinct style is what's he's known for--though often at the expense of character development.

That point can definitely be argued here, and I'd blame that on the rushed story line. Which, frankly, is to be expected in a movie that incorporates plot points from a soap opera that ran over 1,200 episodes.

And about those characterizations. With the exception of Barnabas and Angelique, they were all pretty paltry:

Jackie Earle Haley as Willie Loomis: Before watching the movie, I made the conscious decision to try--try--keeping the original show out of my mind as much as possible. I attempted putting myself in the mindset of someone who's never seen the show. I think as a newbie I'd have been mildly amused by Haley's Willie and then promptly forgotten his character existed. As a fan, I quietly mourned the downgrade of my DS crush from a tortured manservant with a conman past into a shiftless drunk who's barely memorable. Still, Haley's delivery is wry and understated, and though not very memorable, he's passable.

Jonny Lee Miller as Roger Collins: Suffers greatly from limited screen time. Hard to get a feel for Miller's acting, though I didn't really mind how he turned out to be an even bigger douchebag sleaze...bag than the original's Roger. Certainly not as lovable as Louis Edmond's snooty patriarch, but again, Miller was passable.

Gulliver McGrath as David Collins: Very effective little kid who didn't make me want to vomit; again, possibly because we don't see him that much. But when we do he's appropriately soulful and disturbed. I like the inclusion of his mother Laura's ghost, though her actual appearance at the climax feels shoehorned in and ultimately unexplained (Hoffman hints at her cyclical immortality, but no mention of being a phoenix). I wish we could have had some good scenes between he and Vicki; after all, she's the governess who gets through to him in both the original and the revival. Slowly gaining his trust is important to both their characters.

Chloe Grace Moretz as Carolyn Stoddard (has she always used that Grace in her name? I thought she used to be just plain Chloe Moretz): Her Carolyn rubbed me the wrong way. She's given some painfully awkward sullen teen lines (her little outburst during the first breakfast scene is especially clumsy). Moretz got a lot of publicity for this movie, so I was surprised she had no big scenes outside of the werewolf debacle. And that didn't amount to much of a scene. Damn, that stupid werewolf thing. Poor special effect, and too randomly thrown in to be really funny--or dramatic--I don't know what the hell they were going for. "I'm a werewolf. Get over it. Woof," belongs in a Scary Movie sequel, and doesn't gel with the climax's tone. By that point, the action seemed to veer uncomfortably toward spoof, which jarred with the tense mood.

Helena Bonham Carter as Dr. Julia Hoffman: Wins the prize as starring in the scene that almost made me throw up my hands and proclaim that I hate Tim Burton and Seth Grahame-Smith forever. This movie has problems with career women, apparently. The intelligent and crafty Julia Hoffman, who was admittedly downgraded into playing the lovesick sidekick eventually in the original, is really given an even more overt kick in the ovaries here. She may be a brilliant doctor, but really she just wants to be young and sexy again! I will not ever forgive or forget that blow-job scene. And the dispassionate way Barnabas and Willie dispose of her--Willie says, "I never liked the bitch anyways"-- combined with her clownish desperation make for an insulting and degrading turn. Bonham Carter was very good, but she had no substantial character to play outside of drunk wacko letch.

Michelle Pfeiffer as Elizabeth Collins Stoddard: Outside of Barnabas, Angelique, and arguably Vicki, Elizabeth is given the most meat to her character. And of course, Michelle Pfeiffer could just stand there blinking (which she does a great deal of the time here) and still be the classiest part of any production. There's a teasing moment during Alice Cooper's "meh" cameo where she and Carolyn appear to be connecting over things unsaid about Carolyn's father, but unfortunately, nothing comes of it.

Eva Green as Angelique: I'ma gonna go subjective here. Angelique will always be Lara Parker to me just as much as Frid is Barnabas, unfair though that might be to subsequent interpretations. It doesn't help that although Green does well, she's another insulting example of this movie's issue with driven women. Julia Hoffman only conducts scientific experiments so she can be pretty again, and Angelique's only a successful businesswoman because she's a spiteful, horny, pining witch who slinks around most of the time in sexy negligees. Because of the rushed plot, we're never given sufficient reason to understand why she, Julia, and Vicki fall all over themselves for Barnabas. Her deadly infatuation is just there, and while the literal handing of her heart to Barnabas at the end is morbidly touching, and I like that they touch on her possessiveness as being corrosive and pathetic instead of actual love, there just isn't enough sympathy for her character to rise above an offensive though well acted caricature of the ultimate woman scorned.

Bella Heathcote as Victoria Winters: I'm gonna say it loud and I'm gonna say it proud: I love, love, love the Maggie Evans twist to her character, but absolutely hate that they neglect her story for so long and keep her flashbacks so brief. But that twist alone made me upgrade my opinion of the movie from "begrudgingly acknowledging it's not terrible" to "actually sort of liking it". The hypnotically saucer-eyed Heathcote looks eerily like a ghostly Jean Shrimpton, and those Mod, early '70s good looks lend her an ethereal grace that holds your attention when the camera settles on her doll-like face. You could argue her inflections border on the wooden side, but I think they possess the proper, grave weight  Alexander Moltke's Victoria had. And yeah, I want her wardrobe like none other.

I actually gasped when she said her first line: "Hello. My name is Maggie Evans." That. Is brilliant. They took the confusion that resulted from the original's surplus of ingenues and used that to the movie's advantage, creating an effectively startling backstory. If only Vicki/Maggie's backstory were given more time to breathe onscreen besides brief snippets at disjointed moments. There's something so strangely touching about Josette's ghost following this child that I couldn't help adoring the inclusion and wanting more of it, see more of their mystical bond. Admittedly, their connection does open up some character problems: my sister took issue with how Burton and Grahame-Smith basically use Josette's ghost as an excuse to wedge in Vicki's romance with Barnabas. It's easy to make them fall in love when she's "destined" to be with him as a conduit to house Josette's spirit. No need to dwell on any scenes that, y'know, establish Vicki's actual relationship with Barnabas.

I wish ardently that in the prologue Josette had more than one line, that Burton had somehow given her a real scene with Barnabas. My ideal scenario: adding in the traditional moment when Barnabas presents her with the music box. To fit that in, they could always take out the blow-job or ceiling sex with Angelique or multiple scenes where Barnabas finds kookier and kookier places to sleep around the house before his coffin arrives. We never really get a sense of Barnabas's love for Josette, so there's no deep connection there for us to recall. He says he loves her. And that's that. While it's cool and all that Burton took the unexpected route of focusing the story on the business side of the Collins family with Barnabas and Angelique's rival canneries, this means that the integral love triangle is shoved in without much fanfare.

Burton does Victoria and Heathcote a disservice forgetting about the character in the wake of Barnabas's revival and his subsequent sexy scenes with Angelique. That said, Ghost Josette might just be my favorite character.

Johnny Depp as Barnabas Collins: I have to say, I wasn't expecting much from him this time around. From the trailer and clips circulating online, his makeup looked awful and obvious, stagey and unrealistic, the spiked bangs were greasy and distracting, and he seemed to be mugging with exaggerated gravitas. But while he didn't exactly blow me away as Barnabas, and the makeup was still terrible, he was good. He has a commanding presence, and a great romantic sensibility.

Still, we can't quite tell why so many gals suddenly want to throw themselves at him. His sex scenes with Angelique were particularly cringe-worthy, because while Green's appropriately bawdy (her words), Depp's Barnabas is too classy to buy as that overt a cassanova. A passionate kiss I would have forgiven in that office scene, but anything else was just uncomfortable instead of funny, at least to my prudish way of thinking.

And as good as Depp was, we should have seen less from his point-of-view. Burton's so attached to the notion that all his films starring Depp should be filmed from the actor's perspective, and that Depp should always be the sad-eyed misfit, that any mystery surrounding Barnabas is nonexistent here. Jonathan Frid always said that the juiciest part about playing Barnabas, and the most cunning side to his character, was "the lie". For all his bloodthirsty tendencies, Barnabas was always the suave, unfailing gentleman when in civilized society, obsessed with keeping his Vampirism secret from the remaining Collins family members. The fish-out-of-water elements in this film fall flat when Barnabas constantly ignores Elizabeth's efforts to conceal his identity; this Barnabas thinks nothing of mentioning the centuries he's been alive and that real silver would cause him to burst into flame. A little fish-out-of-water humor is fine, but when it messes with fundamental elements of Barnabas's character, it just plain doesn't jive.

So there we are where characterization is concerned. Now for that controversial mish-mashed tone. Most complaints stem from what many deem the awkward combination of gothic seriousness and juvenile humor throughout the film. I had surprisingly few complaints there. Well, not really: I've harped on already about the blow-job, the supernatural sex, and the werewolf reveal, but I also dislike the quirky montage that ineptly covers the cannery and house renovations and too-obvious visual vampire gags, and random scenes like the hippie slaughter. These was all too broad, when some of the quieter jokes (like Barnabas sneering at a Troll doll) worked far better when simply passed over quickly without comment. If they just took out the aforementioned loud jokes, however, I thought the quieter humor worked well. While not quite succeeding in comfortably lightening the tension of the moment, Depp inadvertently playing the Casio organ while bemoaning his fate was, c'mon, pretty dang funny. Subtler touches of humor worked better than broader strokes. They helped sweeten the melodrama without overwhelming the dark mood too much.

As my sister once again noted, that the movie was fast-paced was a relief compared to some epically long movies out recently, but scenes like the prologue suffered for it. I could've done without Barnabas's narration there, as it detached us from the action, and again, we only get a brief shot of Josette before the lovely thing hurls herself off Widow's Hill.

But oh, that glorious scene where Victoria rides the train on the way to Collinsport set to Moody Blues's "Nights in White Satin!" That was worth the price of admission, and the feel of the movie was right for Dark Shadows. Danny Elman also composes one of his best, most mature scores to date. Absent is his tendency to go all quirky "bomp-a-bomp-a-tingly-tingly" with his tunes, a tendency that plagues some of his other Burton scores.

If only Burton and Seth Grahame-Smith hadn't forgotten the potential in Victoria's character and her ties to Josette, if only they hadn't neglected the other characters, if they hadn't gone so broad and crude with some of the comedy, if only Christoper Lee were in it more! If they had just not let the plot get away from them and if they had put in a ton more thought into character and had better integrated the broad jokes, Burton and Depp would have had a triumph on their hands. The atmosphere is tremendous and succeeds in leaving me with a dreamy, happily nostalgic feeling, but it could have been even more. As is, we have a movie with a solid, consistently gothic mood and a sweeping romance, but a sweeping romance that's too poorly developed for this movie to be considered a high art example of the gothic camp genre. Burton's Dark Shadows is a fascinating, beautiful oddity where you can always just see the marks they missed. I liked it, but it's a high-flown mess.

A cousin from England comes calling

And Collinwood is never the same again.

May you rest in peace without a con man disturbing your peace looking for the family diamonds, Barnabas.

Jonathan Frid
1924 - 2012

My Week With Marilyn (2011): Icky

This slick product was even triter and more cliche-ridden than I expected. A giant sloppy valentine so tacky that the glue splurts out at the edges and the little candied hearts spill out all over your school desk. It's a coming-of-age story centered around a charmless, bland, unattractive boy's Madonna-Whore idolatry of an apparently brainless, voluptuous, child-woman shaped legend.

My Week With Marilyn is the kind of movie with lines like, "Don't get in too deep, son," "she just needs kindness," "that's what she does, she breaks hearts," "I had everything to prove to my family, but more to prove to myself," and "When I think of her now, I think of that time when a dream came true. And my only talent was not to close my eyes." Why, yes, Colin Clark, judging by this movie, that was your only talent outside of picking houses for her to stay in.

Marilyn simpers, "why do the people I love always leave me,"  and "people always see Marilyn Monroe. As soon as they realize I'm not her, they run." And, yes, even that old beaten horse, "Little girls should be told how pretty they are." That's how deep the movie goes analyzing Marilyn Monroe: they look at her memorable quotes page on IMDb.

Director Simon Curtis and Colin Clark's own "memoirs" supply us with nothing new, no unique glimpse into Marilyn Monroe's character. Apparently she was vulnerable. Apparently she was late to the set and had a hard time remembering her lines. Apparently she had family issues. Apparently she took pills. Apparently she was manipulative. But no, apparently she was really a child at heart. No, no...really...she was WOMAN.

Oh, to be forcibly gagged again and again with a spoon.

Where is the witty conversationalist Truman Capote remembered fondly, that brash, intelligent woman, frankly unsentimental about the harsh facts of life? Where's the savvy businesswoman who took her career in her own hands when Hollywood kept sending her trash to star in (I added this in after reading this well-written piece at The Sheila Variations left me in the comments by the lovely Rachel.)?

She's not here. Oh, Laurence Olivier mentions at the end that she "must be tough" to have survived Hollywood, and is much stronger than we all think. Well, at least we get to hear stuffy guys say that while watching footage of her dancing girlishly rather than, God forbid, provide a scene where she's actually acting like an adult.

In Vulnavia Morbius's recent review of The Hunger Games over at Krell Laboratories, she discusses the concept of "masking" and how it applies to the character of Bella in the Twilight series: how readers/viewers can "mask" over that blank slate of a girl without any defining characteristics with their own qualities, thus making out with the vampire boy by proxy. My Week With Marilyn commits the same crime of masking with the character of Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne). Going by the way he's portrayed in this film--as a gawky, unappealing ramrod of a boy--I highly suspect Clark's credibility, believe it or not. If the real diary he wrote during The Prince and the Showgirl's filming reads anything at all like this drippy wish-fulfillment script, then in all probability Clark indulged in some hardcore Marilyn Monroe fanfiction to pass the time.

Oh, I'm sure if the boy was appealing and dynamic enough, even a legend like Monroe could have fallen for him. Love comes in many different shapes and sizes, yadda yadda. But because she's only an object for us to contemplate in awed adoration, we see none of Marilyn's motivation for taking him under her sensual wing. As played by Redmayne, he's a wide-eyed dope, a walking, talking, pasty pubescent boner. We're meant to think Marilyn's drawn to him because he's so kind to her, so understanding. Yeah, well, guess what? There were probably about fifty men in that studio alone who would have been more than willing to be so kind, and far more interesting in the bargain. But ah, how could you, the average male viewer, ever relate to a suave, dashing fellow's magical encounter with La Marilyn? Indeed, how could the average girl relate to a Marilyn Monroe goddess winning Edward Cullen's heart?

Just the fact that Curtis et al assume the only way Marilyn Monroe's character can be approached and appreciated is through the nauseatingly lustful and puppyish lens of this horny nonentity is a screaming insult to the actress. When does a tantalizing enigma become a victim of insulting objectification? When the standard Hollywood "swelling and meaningful" score by Conrad Pope pipes up in full "swelling and meaningful" mode when Marilyn enters the picture, dazily arriving at the London airport while Colin looks on, dry-mouthed.

Michelle Williams redeems some of this movie, not all. She is very, very good. She doesn't look like Marilyn, durrhay, and yes, sometimes--even though we'd like to think we're above associating Marilyn with her mere physical image--the difference in looks takes you away from the character a little. But Williams at her best evokes something that is Marilyn, something in her gestures, voice, and big sad eyes. Unfortunately, they're the parts highlighted above: vulnerable, lonely, tragic. I watched some clips on YouTube afterward of Marilyn in The Prince and the Showgirl, and I realized one thing the movie and Williams is missing: the joyousness of Marilyn, the carefree humor that permeated all her roles even when she seemed at her saddest and poutiest. Marilyn's never a chore to watch. You're never thinking, "oh, I can't watch this, you plainly see how tragic her life will turn out" (save maybe for Don't Bother To Knock where she sold the hell out of her image of vulnerability, to chilling effect). She carried with her an airy, happy charm totally lacking in this representation.

I don't want to downplay how sad Marilyn Monroe's life often was and how terrible and borderline Dickensian her upbringing was. But anyone who's read up on the lives of Gene Tierney or particularly Susan Peters will quickly determine that Marilyn Monroe was not quite the most tragic classic actress that ever was, as we so desperately try to make her. Do we make Monroe a tragic icon so we can feel better about liking her? Is it really that important to our collective ego that we enjoy her as something more, something deeper than a uniquely delightful, blonde, and cuddly comedienne? For whose benefit are we turning her into a sexy Joan of Arc martyr? Retroactive guilt for refusing to take her seriously while she was alive, like she wanted? No, I think it's because none of us feel comfortable admitting we miss a pretty woman with a great body who made us laugh. Guys wanted to have sex with her, but not in a crude way. And because it's too simple to reason that away with, "well, she was a funny, good-natured, innocent sexpot onscreen," we have to say instead, "it's because a tragic goddess peers out longingly from those tortured, half-closed eyes that we must protect her rather than boink her! Or protect her while we boink her." Because that's less creepy somehow?

Williams was good, Redmayne was bad, and no other character registers long enough beyond making weak impressions or stumbling about as loud, clumsily drawn stereotypes. Kenneth Branagh as Olivier is a buffoon, a haughty classical clown who yells a lot. Dame Judi Dench as Dame Sybil Thorndike is a kindly enigma, existing only to function as a one-dimensional symbol of upper-crust grandmotherly wisdom. Dougray Scott as Arthur Miller is another enigma, this time of the standoffish, maybe three-minutes-of-screentime variety (I doubt he started writing After the Fall three weeks after marrying Marilyn. Cheap emotional ploy by the writers). He and Thorndike disappear about halfway through, along with a weirdly gnomish publicity man (Toby Jones) and a wasted Derek Jacobi who only shows up to be entranced in a fatherly way for one scene by Marilyn. They fade away in the wake of the gross, poorly written, unbelievable quasi-romance that spawns between Marilyn and the ickiest boyish stalker that ever was, Colin.

Emma Watson is cute and capable as the discarded Lucy, making more of an impression than I expected, especially compared to the film's paltry portrayal of Marilyn. Seriously, no matter how doe-eyed and sincere Williams made her, I like Olivier wanted to haul off and slap her, yelling, "Grow up!" We all got problems, Norma Jeane, yet where are our Paula Svengali Strasbergs to hold our hands and literally bow down before us? Get over yourself, get to set on-time, stop wasting everyone's energy and money, you monstrous baby-woman.

I really don't think that's how we're supposed to feel about Marilyn Monroe, but after a few hours of indulgent fawning from the director, that is very much how I felt. I lost patience with the weepy, spoiled Marilyn image forced on us.

My big secret motivation for seeing this film was as a protective and discerning Vivien Leigh fan. So what did I think of Julia Ormond? Eh, she was all right, I suppose. Her actual acting might not have channeled much Vivien beyond the surface elegance, but her carriage and bearing did. She is a bit brittle, though. When she breaks down watching reels of Monroe and tells Olivier she hopes Marilyn makes his life hell, Ormond had been so stately and sophisticated up to that point, she really comes across more like a bitter old diva than a woman with a tortured psyche of her own. Still, she wasn't the screeching harpy I was afraid a Marilyn-friendly bio would portray, so overall I considered it an inoffensive if not superficial turn. Catherine Zeta-Jones was originally slated to play the role but dropped out to care for a sick Michael Douglas, so I'm sure if she had played Vivien the role would have been made larger and meatier to accommodate the famous Zeta-Jones name (even if I think she looks less like Vivien than Ormond). Still, even after Zeta-Jones left, Vivien's character was written down in the script, so I guess they figured they ought to keep Vivien in, for appearance's sake. A very British thing to do.

I don't think Marilyn deserves a better bio-pic; I think she deserves some damn peace and quiet. If we're not able to give her a fresh edge, a fresh characterization with more depth than the fragile broken baby doll image that denigrates far more than elevates, I'd much rather watch that goofy, fun, sexy gal in How to Marry a Millionaire and call it a day.

Alice in Wonderland (1951): Why it Flopped, and Why it Shouldn't Have

It's appreciated now, of course. Like many flops that came before and after its release, Alice in Wonderland had a far more successful afterlife in revivals, particularly in that decadent, paisley-patterned era called the 1960s, where ironic proto-hipsters fancied themselves tuned into what Lewis Carroll was "really all about." (Answer: DRUGS!!) Where do you think the psychedelics got their decor from, Burton his spiral and stripe fetish? All here, daddy-o.

But flop it did in its 1951 release. This was an especially disgraceful shock at the time because it had the distinct honor of being Walt Disney Studio's first bona fide failure. Despite the hard work Disney (i.e., his animators and minions) put into the production--they had had the rights for ten years, and been in production for five--after the film's earnings proved disappointing, old Walt allegedly turned his back on the movie, echoing public disinterest. With what I can only assume was accompanied by a haughty, injured sniff, Disney said the problem with Alice in Wonderland was that "it lacked heart." That, he argued, was why the movie wasn't successful.

He was right. That uneducated opinion was what sunk Alice.


So soon after World War II, with babies booming all over the place, the public knew what they wanted from Disney. They wanted family stories. They wanted concrete lessons and morals. They wanted structure.

Alice in Wonderland has all the brightness and spunk of Disney's most beloved classics, but underneath that shimmering surface were none of those qualities.

The original material is not your average fairytale, of course. It's a skewered satire of a fairytale, of what would happen if the lost princess met individuals who were certainly some breed of enchanted, but were also distorted caricatures of the various warring Victorian classes, with such ludicrously garish behavior that you couldn't designate them as happy dwarves or snarling dragons--certainly not by Disney standards. And--worst of all!--they didn't particularly act as if they were enchanted by Alice, like the seven dwarves did to Snow White, or the mice to Cinderelly. No simpering adoration. Just mostly grousing inattention at best, active hostility at worst.

All this appears in the novel and the Disney film. Oh, they make a few noble tries at softening the story, such as Alice's mournful song about what happens when you don't follow the own advice you give, the flowers and pencil-headed birds weeping for her. And there's the holier-and-sweeter-than-thou chorus attached at the end, singing out "Alice in Wonderland!" in case we forgot the title. But they're fleeting moments.

That Cheshire Cat who keeps showing up, with the irascibly lovable but eerie voice of Sterling Holloway? The audience may have forgiven him being mischievous and sneaky, so long as it's shown in the end that he really does care for that Alice, and is serving as her genie-like protector, making her dreams come true. He can't be there just to torment her, that must be a front. He must really be charmed by that pert little girl. But no. He totally is there just to torment her. He almost gets her head chopped off by the queen, gleefully. The only reason he hangs around her so much and leads her haphazardly around Wonderland, it appears, is to seal her doom. Everyone's against her at the end, and the film lets loose and abandons any pretense of logic in order to corner Alice. It's a paranoiac's nightmare.

Post-war audiences instinctively led their children away.

So they missed out on one of Disney's absolute best. Also, one of the best adaptations of Alice in Wonderland.


It's the lack of that dripping sentimentality, the saccharine sweetness wafting around so many Disney films of the time and many future and past adaptations of the story, that helps make the film such a triumph. All the characterizations are spot-on: the pompous caterpillar, boisterous Hare and Hatter, heartless Walrus, monstrous Queen. And the energy is high and galumphing, which is often a highlight of even the most indulgent Disney movies, only innervated now by the mean and nasty spectacle that is Carroll's story.

The animation is also unlike anything Disney had done before, capturing Wonderland with just the right shades of mauve, spiraling shapes, striped and checkered patterns, and nightmarishly bright and detailed landscapes. But also, notice how the characters move, express themselves. Particularly Alice.

Alice herself is one of the best delights. If I have one criticism of the film, it's that sometimes the voice work borders too much on the clumsily cartoonish, which takes us away from Wonderland and into a Disney-clean rendition of Vaudeville (yeah, hate to say it, looking at you, Ed Wynn). But 12-year-old Kathryn Beaumont imbues Alice with a graceful assurance, a lovely, full voice and sweet British accent that makes Alice charming and naive without becoming too dreadfully twee.

The animators (including possibly Walt Kelly, of Pogo fame) studied her movements closely and applied them amply to the Alice we see onscreen: her gestures and body language are like a quiet, subtle ballet of the more dainty silent film stars. She draws back in surprise from the tinier and tinier doors, her small hands fluttering slightly, her walk frank and pigeon-toed as she explores the Queen of Heart's maze.

Alice is also the first Disney heroine with a discernible personality outside of innate goodness and charity. Again, the animation helps. The big eyes and tiny rosebud mouth with thin rounded eyebrows they gave all their leading ladies are unusually expressive here, more recognizably human and less blurred. And thanks again to the writing and Beaumont's mature but lively acting, Alice has more life and more depth than trilling Snow White, dreamy Cinderella, or passive Aurora (I was surprised to learn Sleeping Beauty was released eight years after Alice, it seems more dated in comparison--though it really is a beautiful movie on its own merit).

Alice, just like the one in the book, is curious, foolhardy, proper to a fault, and even face-palms.

Epic. If they had really allowed her to let loose, as she began to when she grows into a giant in the courtroom and berates the queen, relishing her new power, Alice had the potential to become almost a more even-tempered version of Basil Fawlty, frazzled and maddened when dealing with the staff. But Disney had to reign her in a little. So she's not quite as fiery as maybe we would have liked, but then, was Carroll's Alice? No. But she was a fun, charming little girl, one of the most endearing heroines in literature. In a fun, charmingly deranged world. Just as Carroll might have not-so-secretly liked it.

And frankly, in this one of Disney's few relatively faithful adaptations of its source material, I like the movie a lot, too. The audience wasn't ready for such adherence to Carroll's work in a kid's movie, however. Which is surprising in one respect, since I mean this stuff is pretty damn tame compared to what parents are leading their kids away from these days, people. Of course, I'm sure no parents actually thought Carroll's tale was detrimental to their young'uns, but it wasn't--to be cloyingly punny--post-war America's cup of tea. They wanted some characters to be nice to little Alice, and for the characters who weren't nice to get their comeuppance, darnit! But ah, Alice is out of Wonderland now, back with her sister. Certainly now the sister will comfort Alice, spelling out the moral: no matter how fun it is to wander off to Wonderland and get lost in daydreams, isn't it infinitely more satisfying to the soul when it's time to come home, little girl? That's the moral they're going to leave us with, right?

Nope. Alice wakes up, babbles the Jabberwocky, the sister shakes her head, they go off into the sunset, the chorus starts, credits roll, no moral explicitly laid out for us.

Because fuck you. Reality sucks, reality was the war you just fought. Let your children enjoy sick, twisted Wonderland, because at least it's dizzyingly unreal and vibrant and it's of your own subconscious's making. Let the kids have some control, even if it's only in an uncontrollable world of their own.

Hot dog! I'm a wiener!

Rachel at The Girl with the White Parasol, a site that's far from unfamiliar in this neck of the blogosphere, has generously nominated me for a 7X7 Link Award. This arrives at an advantageous time for my humble site, since New Part-time Job + Stress + Natural Inclination Toward The Lazy = Long Stretch of Blogger's Block. The structured rules that result from winning blog awards is sure to get my writing juices flowing once more. The premise goes thusly:

* Tell everyone something that no one else knows about
* Link to one of my posts that I personally think best fits the following categories: Most Beautiful Piece, Most Helpful Piece, Most Popular Piece, Most Controversial Piece, Most Surprisingly Successful Piece, Most Underrated Piece, and Most Pride-worthy Piece
* Pass this award on to seven other bloggers

All right, first things first then, won't you?

*Tell everyone something that no one else knows about


I'm a Death Eater.



Ha ha, I kid! I barely know what that is (the Harry Potter phenomenon has always left me surprisingly cold). Let's see, I'm not too secretive.

Oh. I know. In my heart of hearts, this is the secret career I really always wanted, even with the risk of arthritis, injuries, drastic weight loss, and what have you:

With all the pressure, competitiveness, and striving for perfection inherent in ballet, I'd probably last all of two seconds. But in my dream world I'm automatically good at it and graceful as a freaking swan and everybody can kiss my dainty little ass.

* Link to one of my posts that I personally think best fits the following categories:


Most Beautiful Piece

I'll go with The Mummy: Most Romantic Movie Character Ever? True love is beautiful. True love that spans the ages is beautiful. Madness and evil grappling with adoration is beautiful. And pictures of Christopher Lee's big, sad, dark eyes? Beautiful.

Most Helpful Piece


I share Rachel's befuddlement with this one. I suck at giving directions, so you won't find anything like that here. Guess I'll go with my very first post, Internet? Can I play, please? This bundle of first-time nerves wrapped up in a few scattered paragraphs did kinda sorta explain in its backward way who I am and what I'm all about, and gave a very vague idea what to expect from future posts (truth is I didn't know then, and I don't really know now. This blog was supposed to be about the best local fish canneries, but it got away from me!).

Most Popular Piece

Going by my stats, Great What-Ifs Vol 2, Electric Boogaloo: Batman The Animated Series in the '40s? AKA: Why do all my posts end in question marks? Lack of confidence? Or is it instead evidence of a quick, querying mind struggling to come to terms with the wacky world around her? Or is it the tender story of a rich little girl forced to live in the attic of her boarding house working as a scullery maid after her father dies and she loses her inheritance?

Anyways, I'm not surprised this one's so popular. I attract two of my biggest audiences here: the comics fans and the old movie fans, all framed by that goofy "let's cast this!" premise. I should do that again sometime. They're really, really fun to write. And they evidently make people like me! Boon!

Most Controversial Piece

I'd say Bogus Developments in TV Shows. In this one post alone, I blasted two incredibly popular Buffy couples, questioned the creators' motives in turning Willow lesbian, slyly hinted there might be sexism lurking behind the idea that Liz Lemon desperately wants to be a mommy despite her selfish, lovably immature character, and accused James Marsters and Sarah Michelle Gellar of having zero romantic chemistry. I know, cutting-edge, right? Look, I have no secrets and I have no controversy! I'm the easy-going blogger who wants everyone to be happy and think about Batman and Film Noir! Is that so wrong?

Most Surprisingly Successful Piece

Looking at my stats once more, apparently my brief piece Elke Sommer: Another in the long line of '60s blondes I pretended to be when I was little and even now a little bit is my second most popular post after the What-If Batman piece. I also apparently find really long and confusing post titles cute and quirky, adorkable in the nauseating extreme!

This flummoxes me. I mean, I know I love Elke Sommer, and she's certainly deserving of accolades and recognition. But I always kind of assumed her popularity these days was eclipsed by the Bardots, Welches, Ekbergs, and so on. Plus, I don't really say much that's new and edgy--hell, I don't even mention her long-standing feud with Zsa Zsa Gabor! What the piece boils down to is, "Hi! I liked Elke Sommer in A Shot in the Dark. She's really pretty. Don't you think she's charming? I certainly do." The video I embedded doesn't even play anymore.

I'm not saying it's a bad post, but my second most popular of all time? Really? Okie-doke, internet. You must really, really like your Germanic blondes.

Oh, wait. Of course you do. Never mind, I get it.

Most Underrated Piece

Literary Rant: In Defense of Dolores Haze.  I think the contemporary dismissal of Lolita's plight and character is harmful, and misses the point of the book entirely. I made some good points about the way Nabokov wrote her character and how the film versions handled the story, but received zip in the comment department. And again, looking at some of my stats, my suspicion is the audience this did attract were people looking for Lolita fashion. Or young girls dressed up as Lolita. I don't know what I was expecting writing about Lo, so there you go.

Most Pride-worthy Piece

The Dolores Haze piece is up there, but for variety's sake I'll say my review of Going Sane, 1994. Reviewing a graphic novel falls outside my normal territory, but I think I acquitted myself rather well. The scans are terrible, so don't look at them. There's like a smudge of something on one of them, another is crooked, and you can't even read the text on one. I t'ain't very scan savvy.

But I really love Going Sane, and thought I did a good job of balancing that love with some healthy critical objectivity (i.e. when I talked about how much the art sucked). I think I also gave a fair representation of the Joker, or at least DeMatteis's version--not cardboard, but not overly romanticized, either. Because seriously, how can you romanticize the Clown Prince? Depth is good, but let's not make him fall head over heels in love with Harley or anything like that to satisfy our disturbing fangirl urges, please. And this is coming from one of the most disturbed fangirls you'll ever meet (I think Christopher Plummer as General Chang in Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country is sexy).

* Pass this award on to seven other bloggers

As has happened the last couple of times, I missed out nominating the wonderfully brilliant Rachel for an award, since another lucky blogger beat me to the punch. Rachel is as generous to fellow bloggers as she is insightful in her posts. And on top of not being able to nominate her, that crafty she-devil already named a few other blogs I might have picked. But per usual, I'm still following more than enough delightful blogs to fit the required bill.

A Mythical Monkey Writes About The Movies: Balances really fun tourneys and events with well-written film analysis. Have a feeling the Monkey's paws are about full right now co-hosting the 2012 Favorite Classic Movie Actress Tourney, but this award is here when you're ready, Monkey!

All Good Things: Same to you, All Good Things! Thanks for all the pictures, trivia, and more!

By Film Possessed: I only recently started following esco's blog, but the films and opinions featured already impress me with their originality and depth.

Classic Movies: KC keeps me up to date on all the hot links and classic movie updates. Obviously has a deep passion for the subject, and generously shares all the best info with the reader.

I Think, Therefore I Review: Kristin knows her stuff and knows how to write to draw you in. Excellent blog, excellent and versatile list of subjects.

Movietone News: I've gushed about Matthew's writing before, so I'll simply reiterate: unique, fun, and superbly written. Always a joy to read.

Frankly, My Dear: Charming, spirited, and stylish. Rianna embraces her favorite interests and makes you love them, too.

Dang, seven went by fast! There are about a million more blogs that I follow I'd have loved including, so I might have to create my own award thingy one of these days. I can do that, right? What, you going to send the Blog Police after me? Is this an Orwellian hell we're living in, folks, or the CYBER REVOLUTION? You decide. I'm gonna go eat something.

Brief Thoughts on Inception

Finally watched Christopher Nolan's Inception last night after only, y'know, about two years since it came out. And as my dad said afterward, "Just because a plot gets more and more complicated as it goes along doesn't automatically make it mind-blowing." Have to say I agree.

Not that it wasn't an effective movie. The performances were all quite good, the score was unique and powerful for all its pounding insistency, and yeah, the special effects were amazing--but we've come to the point in moviemaking where I, at least, am not that bowled over by amazing special effects anymore. Compared to the days of stop-animation and the hyper-stylized architecture of expressionism, computers make something like floating around a hotel room and skyscrapers disobeying the laws of physics fairly easy to accomplish.

But it's really that plot that gets me. Man. Frankly, the greatest stories are those with simple foundations, where the twists and turns don't grow from twists and turns already embedded in the storyline. By the time the movie was over, I felt far more exhausted than impressed. Maybe my brain was just too feeble to properly appreciate the profound beauty of it all, or something. But Nolan kept the pace so bullet-fast, which admittedly made the 2 hours and something minutes go by relatively quickly and also captured that skitterish free-falling nature we sometimes have in dreams, but it lacked that opposite feeling we sometimes experience in dreams--something almost primitive and deep, where time doesn't exist at all.

Nolan tries for that eerie sensation in the scenes with Mal and Cobb, but here the quick pace works against him, since we never for one moment feel like the subconscious is stretching out to a blissful 50 years--a period of time that some film-makers like Wim Wenders can indeed capture (not that I'm a huge fan of it when Wenders does it). Instead, the pacing in Inception reduces these flashbacks to nothing more in our imagination than what we see onscreen, which is Leonardo DiCaprio quickly telling Ellen Page about it while some special effects rapidly fill in his and Mal's world for us while he talks.

And Nolan is also a little too much in love with the plot at expense of the characters. Despite the good performances, we're so constantly having the plot explained to us that even Cobb's tragic past with Mal isn't enough to make him or anyone else all that likable or relatable. That might not always be necessary in an action film of this nature, but if making the characters recognizable human beings wasn't Nolan's intention, why add Mal at all? Her scenes certainly tugged at the heart-strings, but never enough to make us forget that Cobb's ensemble is doing some pretty shallow, messed up things to poor Fischer. Thus I ended up dismissing the Cobbs as pretty self-centered, delusional people, even outside Mal's madness. Certainly Nolan was trying to paint them both as flawed, but his attempt to make them redeemable through their great love for each other never really struck home with me.

Maybe that's what the ambiguous, "is it all a dream" ending was for--perhaps Cobb doesn't get off scot-free after duping a grieving man with only the assurance from a robber baron that it was "the right thing to do." And hell, maybe Cobb deserves to be trapped in a phony paradise of his own making. But again, by the end, all the effort I put into pretending I knew what was going on in the ever-expanding, ever-verbose plot sapped me of any interest in his character, or anyone else's.

Was it a bad movie? No, not really. Inception was competently made, acted, and slickly stylish. But its ludicrous self-seriousness never hit me in that internal, nightmarish place where many film-goers long to be hit when watching material like this.

But man, I really did like that score.