masculinity

Monogamy

brittany — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 22:00:00 +0000

Don’t let the relationship-centric plot fool you; Monogamy is not a chick flick. In fact, it’s one of the more interesting films I’ve seen that explores fears about committing oneself to just one person for the rest of one’s life, from a wholly male perspective.

Typically these kinds of heteronormative man-boy treatises on marriage phobia are treated with ample doses of trite and predictable humor. While Monogamy dips its toe into these well worn waters, to writer-director Dana Adam Shapiro’s credit, it never dwells there for very long. Instead, Shapiro gives the viewer nonverbal shards of Theo’s (Chris Messina) conflicted inner tumult through a dully present, self-distanced, unsteady lens. The result is a thought-provoking film.

While Shapiro stays away from Hollywood-style cliché, Monogamy is overflowing with film student-esque visual metaphor: Theo’s repeated donning of a creepy dog mask indicates that men are dogs, an engagement ring constructed from a piece of string represents how Theo’s desire to get married is hanging by a thread, and a repetitive, ambient score overlays the relationship’s tedious monotony. These ubiquitous moments caused my partner to say out loud at one point, “Alright. We get it already!” Clearly, he’d had enough.

That said, I appreciated the way Monogamy's clunky pace impressed the awkward and stilted predictability present in Theo’s and Nat’s (Rashida Jones) interactions—and the interactions of most all the married couples in the film, for that matter. The utter lack of spontaneity coupled with Nat's rejection of his sexual advances made it easy to empathize with Theo’s frustration with his fiance, despite the deep level of comfort he felt with her. So, when the mysterious, daring, and overtly sexual Subgirl (Meital Dohan) makes an entrance by masturbating in a public park as Theo consensually captures the indiscretion with his camera, you can feel Theo’s core being shaken.

The enigmatic character’s pseudonym illuminates Theo’s undoing. Subgirl is not a full person, just a partial representation of something men desire: naughty, anonymous, illicit sex. She is as tantalizing as she is elusive, and her entry into his life causes Theo to become obsessed with what marrying Nat means giving up. He takes the gains of monogamy for granted.

This provocative, if somewhat banal film, is sure to get attention for all the wrong things: its treatment of voyeurism and exhibitionism, for example. But what makes Monogamy worth the watch is what it says about male perspectives and masculinity. It’s a trip to boy’s town, that’s for sure. And one I believe is worth making.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, March 11th 2011

Passage to Manhood: Youth Migration, Heroin, and AIDS in Southwest China

tina — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

By Shao-hua Liu

Stanford University Press

Heroin. AIDS. Migration. Development programs. Gender roles. In Passage to Manhood: Youth Migration, Heroin, and AIDS in Southwest China, Shao-hua Liu examines each of these issues and how they relate to Nuoso youth. An anthropological researcher, the author delves into how China’s evolution from the traditional to the modern intersects with drug use, disease, and development. The book focuses on the Nuoso, a poor and marginalized group in southwest China that has been disproportionately affected by the drug trade and HIV/AIDS.

The author does a commendable job of stressing the interconnected nature of migration, gender, drug use, and political economies. While these issues are naturally linked, too many authors focus on one of these aspects while ignoring the myriad forces that shape cultures and communities. Passage to Manhood features a fresh approach to understanding why heroin use and HIV took over the Nuoso to such a great extent. The author presents an answer that relies on the intersection of marginalization, stigmatization, modernization, and power dynamics within communities.

The author’s honest approach to gender stood out in the book. Instead of making sweeping generalizations about gender politics among the Nuoso, the author explains how she approached the subject and details the difficulties she had using male translators to interview women.

Acknowledging that her access to information was limited, the author conveys the basic framework of what she found. While drug use and HIV/AIDS shaped the entire community in some way, it affected men and women differently. The author explains that young men were first drawn to heroin because it was fashionable and demonstrated a particular social status. Drug use overlapped with the definition of masculinity among the Nuoso, which was based on a desire for adventure and mobility. The gender hierarchy, which placed women subordinate to men, played out in heroin politics: Women encountered the drug trade through small dealings and followed their husbands or partners, who were responsible for the larger trades.

The author is careful to note that gender dynamics not only shaped the details of the drug trade among the Nuoso, but also determined the effectiveness of state-managed intervention programs to combat drug use and HIV/AIDS. In a careful dissection of the failures of these intervention programs, the author examines how the program administrators viewed cultural taboos about sex as barriers to their work. Instead of acknowledging the fluidity of cultural norms, state-managed interventions overlooked honest sex education and contributed to misinformation about HIV/AIDS. By ignoring the unique cultural context of the Nuoso and using global AIDS messages from elsewhere, the architects of these programs inadvertently instilled a stigma about AIDS where one previously did not exist. This case study presents a sobering lesson for those working on global AIDS prevention programs; such interventions must be designed as a cooperative exercise between local groups and the program implementers, not cookie-cutter programs delivered from above.

It is difficult to pluck one nugget of information from the author’s interconnected web, but perhaps the greatest take away from the book is that AIDS and drug use do not exist in a vacuum. Gender politics, economics, migration, and urbanization each exact pressure on people’s actions and perceptions. A thorough understanding of drug use and HIV/AIDS within a community must begin with an expansive interpretation of how individuals, families, and societies grapple with these ever-changing forces.

Written by: Andrea Gittleman, February 25th 2011

Misframing Men: The Politics of Contemporary Masculinities

brittany — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Michael Kimmel

Rutgers University Press

The media’s obsession with the “crisis” of masculinity has long reached a feverish, cliché-filled pitch. “We’re losing our boys,” one article proclaims. “We must save the males,” says another. It’s unnerving, particularly since that identity crisis is pinned on the advancement of women in formerly male-dominated spheres.

There is a masculinity crisis, according to Michael Kimmel’s latest book Misframing Men. But it has nothing to do with women “invading” formerly men-only spaces or men taking on more responsibilities at home. Instead, Kimmel posits, men—particularly young men—are being confronted with media stereotypes and a public discourse that attempt to put them in a rigidly stifling box of masculine identity. And the more men struggle to fit themselves inside this frame, the more apparent it becomes that such a frame is doing a grave disservice to them.

Kimmel does an excellent job weaving together the economic, political, and social contributors to this masculinity crisis while avoiding the over-conflating (and overreacting) he is so critical of in the media. His debunking of gender symmetry in domestic violence articulately critiques a quantitative tool for measuring domestic violence (the Conflict Tactics Scale) through a stern analysis of the differing intentions and severity of male- and female-perpetrated violence. He negates the claims of gender symmetry supporters who believe the solution to violence perpetrated by both genders is to decrease the amount of funding for women who are survivors of domestic violence by suggesting an overhaul on how our culture approaches the causes (and solutions) of interpersonal violence.

His discussion of the struggle to make the Citadel and Virginia Military Institute co-ed—an arduous legal process for which he served an expert witness—is approached with no less of a degree of professionalism and intentionality. Critics bemoaned the attempt to “de-male” these institutions as another “threat” to men’s rights and happiness. Yet, as Kimmel points out, the rationale for keeping women out of these institutions has been mired in stereotypes and wholly ignorant of reality. As he poignantly concludes, the best way to strengthen these institutions is not to continue to seal them off from the outside world (and women). Rather, Kimmel states, “In a context of equality, the assumed differences between women and men will be revealed as stereotypes that help neither women nor men nor the institutions in which we find ourselves.” It is this striking eloquence that makes it my favorite chapter in Misframing Men.

Kimmel ends his book on a high note, reflecting that—despite allegations that young men are buckling under the pressure of women’s equality—young men on college campuses are happily adopting the “identities, practices, and ideas” of gender equality—in essence, constructing a new frame for themselves. It remains to be seen whether the media takes notice or chooses to remain mired in the sand of their manufactured obsessions.

Written by: Gwen Emmons, September 12th 2010

Despicable Me

admin — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 20:31:00 +0000

Directed by Pierre Coffin, Chris Renaud

Universal Studios

A few years ago my eleven year old sister was writing an essay on violence in schools. During our discussion of different types of violence, she astutely pointed out that not all violence is physical, and that a mean comment can be just as violent as a punch in the face. This led to an involved conversation about bullies in which, at one point, my sister looked at me and said, “I think bullies are mean to the kids at school because no one is nice to them at home. No one is giving them love.”

Despicable Me is the story Gruu (Steve Carell), a young boy whose dreams of traveling in space were thwarted by an uncaring mother and resulted in a grownup bully most proud of being the world’s greatest villain. That is, until he is bested by the younger, sleeker Vector (Jason Segal) and must enlist three orphaned girls in his grand plan to steal the moon. While the title of the movie suggests this is a film about a villain and his despicable acts, it is truly a love story about the bonds of parenthood, and the many ways people create family.

Like many animated features, Despicable Me appeals to both adults and children by providing timely social commentary amidst silly sights and situations. The beauty of animation is that it allows imaginary caricatures to perform acts that are very real, and very human. The title alone is a reflection of the human condition, for any one of us can be the “me” in question, participating in any variety of despicable acts on a daily basis.

As the titular Me, Steve Carell adds another credit to his list of bumbling anti-heroes we love to see succeed. Though his accent is mildly distracting, audiences will recognize the same humble wit that endears us to him week after week on The Office. Segal is equally impressive as Vector, a geek turned villain in response to a consistently disappointed father. But it is the always awesome Kristen Wiig who is perhaps the most despicable of all.

As orphanage headmistress Miss Hattie, Wiig delivers her lines like glass of sweet tea with razor ice cubes—sugary sweet and viciously sharp all in the same mouthful. Clearly a jab at the adoption system, as well as gender and class privilege, she callously sends Margot, Edith, and Elsie out the door with the despicable Gruu, who offers no credentials or identification, but is simply disguised as a doctor.

While the film neglects one of my cardinal rules of feminist filmmaking—having positive female role models—it did call into question traditional roles of masculinity, especially in response to parenthood. Margot, Edith, and Elsie were role models in their own right, emulating and each serving as a manifestation of responsibility (Margot), skepticism (Edith), and unquestioning affection (Elsie). In addition to having some of the funniest lines in the film, the sister’s camaraderie and confidence in their own relationship, as well as their unconditional love for each other and those around them, is what eventually turns Gruu from super bad to Super Dad.

Written by: Alicia Sowisdral, July 19th 2010

Iron Butterflies: Women Transforming Themselves and the World

admin — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Birute Regine

Prometheus Books

In the eternal question of nature versus nurture, author and developmental psychologist Birute Regine leans comfortably towards nature. She embraces “feminine” qualities and calls for women the world over to do the same. While the anecdotes and reflections she chooses to share are indeed compelling and inspirational, the book as a whole can be off-putting if you do not necessarily prescribe to the idea of gendered personality traits.

One major theme running throughout Iron Butterflies is the need to reject and reform what she calls “gladiator culture,” which is defined by its aggressive, macho, and violent nature. This, Regine writes, is the source of many societal ills. The book is then a call to action for women around the globe to effect change through compassion, empathy, and caring—the antidote to gladiator culture. By accepting and uncovering innately feminine qualities, women can improve their own quality of life while also creating social change in their communities and in the larger world.

Though gender biases, discrimination, and violence continue to exist in full force, further emphasis on the “inherent” differences between men and women feels uncomfortable and one-sided. Instead of gendering characteristics, a more inclusive approach would have been to look deeper into how these traits have come into existence and examine the larger society as a whole for ways that everyone can integrate compassion, for instance, into their daily behavioral repertoire.

Regine does recognize this point in a few isolated moments, but looking at a scale with nature on one side and nurture on the other, she falls much closer to nature. With chapters entitled, “Tears: Heal the Hidden Wound,” and “Chrysalis: Shedding Self-Imposed Limitations,” the general tone of the book is New Age-y self help, with the inclusion of various ethnic and cultural metaphors. The core message is one of positive change and growth, but the means of achieving them may not resonate with all readers.

Written by: Shana Mattson, July 8th 2010

Get Him to the Greek

admin — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 21:00:00 +0000

Directed by Nicholas Stoller

Universal Studios

Aldous Snow (Russell Brand)—the uber-sexual, tongue-in-cheek (and anywhere else you’ll let him stick it) Brit-rocker introduced to audiences in 2008’s Forgetting Sarah Marshall—is back in the latest film from yet another member of the Apatow Film Club for Boys. Based on characters created by Jason Segel, and written and directed by Nicholas Stoller, Get Him to the Greek is an often-comical, always offensive satire of the music industry, rock ‘n’ roll culture, and America’s reverence for all things celebrity.

Capitalizing on the fervor ignited by Brand, Get Him to the Greek succeeds in blurring the line between reality and fiction through inclusion of an original soundtrack and videos (performed by Brand and co-star Rose Byrne) and cameos by more than one recognizable pop artist and media outlet. Brand is refreshingly genuine as a privileged star struggling to gain control of his life, while Byrne offers hilarious support as Snow’s ex-wife and musical partner, Jackie Q. Effortlessly, she rivals Brand with her own sincere wit as she admits on Showbiz Tonight how bored she is with her husband’s sobriety.

I expected to like this film—and I did. Stoller bravely explores intimacy among men and, similar to I Love You, Man, his manuscript explores the complex dynamics of male relationships by offering glimpses of sincerity, vulnerability, and affection, elements often ignored in favor of more acceptably masculine attributes. However, as is often the case in Hollywood, without being well-versed in feminist values, what is meant to be ironic instead reinforces stereotypes and makes it that much harder for girls to be in on the joke.

Some attempts at humor are more problematic than others. While attempting to wrangle Snow in Vegas and escort him to New York City, music intern Aaron (Jonah Hill) is ordered by his boss Sergio (Sean “P Diddy” Combs) to have sex with a woman he’s just met, Destiny. Actually, Sergio commands Destiny to “[t]ake this man into the bedroom and have sex with him," and she readily complies. What follows is a pointless scene in which the petite Destiny forces the hefty Aaron to have sex with her. He says, “No.” He “protests.” (In reality, he could have easily tossed her off him.) Finally, he returns to his friends and announces, “I think I was just raped.” They laugh, and so does the audience. Gross.

In a perfect world, we can laugh about anything. Considering the world we live in, however, perhaps the more appropriate question is "who is allowed to laugh about rape?" When victims speak out with humor about their own lived experience, they are ridiculed or shamed, but when white men in Hollywood poke fun, its satire. Satire, by definition, is an exaggeration that is so far from reality that it is ridiculous to even consider. (The punchline to this joke being how ridiculous and non-threatening rape is for men – that men can’t be raped.) Unfortunately, this moment in Get Him to the Greek reinforces cultural myths surrounding the acceptance of rape. Instead of calling attention to the cultural, systemic, powerful epidemic of sexual violence, the "joke" nullifies its severity by applying it to the most powerful social group (white men).

The film industry is a site where creative potential can be harnessed to provoke meaningful change, and this band of brothers has the ability to lead the way for other Freaks and Geeks. But if we don’t start getting some feminist minds in on the action, these bright men are headed straight for the John Mayer Celebrity School of Shame.

Written by: Alicia Sowisdral, June 15th 2010

Entangling Alliances: Foreign War Brides and American Soldiers in the Twentieth Century

admin — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Susan Zeiger

New York University Press

When men are shipped out to foreign locations to engage in wartime activities, it seems inevitable that they will become romantically and sexually involved with foreign women. In Entangling Alliances, Susan Zeiger explores this phenomenon, examining governmental, military, and societal responses to American soldiers’ desires for sex, companionship, and marriage while engaged in combat overseas. She argues that the changing ways Americans treated war brides over the course of the twentieth century demonstrates shifting American sensibilities regarding foreign policy, race, and gender. More than anything, because war brides involved an exchange of women across cultural and national boundaries, American discourse about war brides was ultimately about what constituted American manhood, men’s relationships with women, and the role of the nation in its relationship to other countries.

During World War I, the military preached sexual abstinence while devising methods to keep American soldiers and local women apart, in particular African-American soldiers and white European women. The army’s response to marriage requests vacillated until an official policy was handed down that marriage was a personal, not military, question. Meanwhile, domestic policy concerns in the U.S. triumphed over an internationally-oriented political outlook; xenophobia for newcomers was inevitable and Americans wondered if these foreign women could become good American wives. Though many predicted the demise of these marriages, evidence reveals that the majority made it.

In World War II, military policy differed depending on location. It encouraged marriage in Great Britain and Australia, both Allied countries with similar cultural backgrounds to white middle-class America. Likewise, American society welcomed these brides, suggesting that American women should emulate their domesticity and loyalty to husbands. Alternatively, the military encouraged prostitution, rather than marriage, in both Italy and the Philippines, while American society viewed these war brides as less desirable immigrants. Zeiger argues that both policies—encouraging prostitution or marriage—“shared... the intention to preserve and extend male control over women.” She also points out that though many of these local women showed independence and an assertion of personal freedom by going out with American men, sometimes against their family’s wishes, their stories “end with marriage and dependence.”

Race played a huge role in war bride stories post-WWII and throughout the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Congressional policy actively limited brides from Asian countries, outright barring Japanese spouses for several years, while all interracial couples faced social discrimination and, occasionally, found that their marriages were not legal when they moved from one state to another.

Zeiger argues that the conflicts in Korea and Vietnam saw the “demise” of the war bride as a phenomenon considered and debated by the American public. The military did not provide transport to war brides the way they did in WWI and WWII, and it actively encouraged prostitution rather than marriage, extending its WWII policy of creating red-light districts where prostitutes were regularly examined by medical officials and given “safe” ratings to prevent the spread of venereal disease. Korean and Vietnamese wives were not written about widely in the American press and they have not written about their post-war experiences in America, the way war brides from earlier eras have done. They have been, Zeiger writes, “all but invisible in American culture.”

Demographic information suggests that these Asian war brides tend to be isolated, even in comparison to other Asian immigrants though they have sponsored family members to come to the U.S., unlike earlier war brides. Though Asian war brides were an untold story, there was a lot of media attention paid to the mixed-race children left behind in Vietnam and, sometimes airlifted out and brought to the U.S. Zeiger argues that the story of Amerasian children, and the efforts to bring them to the U.S. allowed Americans to re-conceptualize the war, seeing both Amerasian children and American soldiers as victims in the story. “The American nation becomes father and, also, paradoxically, child. Vietnam, the mother, the war bride, is not part of this reconciliation.”

Entangling Alliances is a compelling read, illuminating twentieth century social struggles encountered by men and women on both domestic and foreign soil over questions of gender, race, and nationality. Though Zeiger argues that the war bride phenomenon died out with the Korean and Vietnam wars, clearly, soldiers still took wives and fathered children with Korean and Vietnamese women. More recently, stories of male American soldiers marrying Iraqi women have been exploited in the media. Because Zeiger only covers the period from WWI up through the Vietnam War, she leaves a perplexing question unexplored: What has happened with female soldiers and local men in the conflicts that the U.S. has engaged in the last twenty years? Have female soldiers, like male soldiers, engaged in romantic and sexual conquests with non-U.S. citizens? I suspect their experience has been radically different than their male counterparts.

Written by: Jessica Powers, June 5th 2010

Masculine Identity in the Fiction of the Arab East Since 1967

admin — Wed, 19 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Samira Aghacy

Syracuse University Press

It is widely acknowledged that limited gender constructs and highly patriarchal social structures, the kind that are prevalent in the Middle East, are often harmful to women. Across the spectrum of thought and knowledge—from columnists like New York Times' Nicholas Kristoff to 2010 Time 100’s Reem Al Numery—we have all become familiar with how harmful the effects of male-centric, male-dominant societies can be to women.

The questions then become: How do these constructs effect men? How does the amplification of the importance of men as a group effect men as individuals? Are the gender constructs and societal norms that are so often harmful to women exclusively beneficial to men, or does some harm come to men as well?

In Masculine Identity in the Fiction of the Arab East Since 1967, Samira Aghacy attempts to answer these questions. While her analysis focuses on fiction, there is no denying that the truth is often found in what has been imagined. The stories constructed simplify the present being experienced, often making it less personal and more manageable. By surveying the fiction written in what she calls the "Arab East" (Lebanon, Jordan, Palestine, Syria, and Iraq) after the various wars of 1967 (the Six-Day War with Israel, the state breakdown in Lebanon, etc.) caused a nadir in the region, Aghacy brings to the fore men’s vision of their constructs.

Aghacy emphasizes her identification with a view of the world that sees masculinity as operating independently of men, at times. Thus, men can be victims of masculine societal norms. In this light, the archetypes Aghacy finds in the literature are both abusers and abused, those who inflict and enforce societal norms of masculinity unto others and those who are the Others. The writings she examined also use male stereotypes to make judgments about their societies. According to Aghacy, in a story a dysfunctional male may represent a dysfunctional state, an oppressive male can represent an oppressive state, etc.

Viewing the world through a feminist lens, it is easy to forget the effect of repressive structures on men. Masculinity, which so often limits women, can also limit men, and often profoundly so. While the experience is in no way comparable, patriarchal structures are torturous in a distinct way for all members of the patriarchy.

Written by: Elisheva Zakheim, May 19th 2010

Privilege: A Reader

admin — Sat, 08 May 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Edited by Michael Kimmel, Abby L. Ferber

Westview Press

A historian once said that the more one can know about something, the more you can control it. Michel Foucault was specifically talking about the control of psychiatric patients, prison inmates, and people's sex lives, but we can certainly extend his thoughts to a plethora of other examples. What Foucault did not say, however, was how exposing and learning about power and dominance can lead to their dismantling.

After more than two decades since his passing, the inheritors of Foucault's ideas make an appearance in a handsome new book that explores the invisible power of privilege; namely the privilege of being White, heterosexual, and middle class in America. Privilege: A Reader is a collection of essays compiled and edited by Michael Kimmel and Abby L. Ferber, both scholarly experts in masculinities and ethnic studies respectively. The book takes on a welcoming and accessible feel with essays that come a personal place, many written from a first-person perspective by heavyweights like Patricia Hill Collins, bell hooks, and Tim Wise.

Some, like Allan Bérubé's experience as a gay rights activist brings to light the complications of being White in anti-racist gay rights movement. Not being White, I found Bérubé's angst about pointing out the Whiteness of influential gay groups in the U.S. an eyeopener. For White people, it seems, it was convenient to remain racially invisible and to depend on the unspoken rules about keeping that Whiteness unchecked. Awkward silences, defensiveness, and hostility form the repertoire of White discomfort when the racial gaze is turned to Whiteness.

In Michael A. Messner's piece on "Becoming 100 Percent Straight," he raises questions that heterosexual people rarely ask: how do we know for sure we're straight? And what made us straight? Messner's question is interwoven in a study of his own sexuality that touches on his memories as a young man who was infatuated with a male classmate and friend. In repressing this infatuation, he belittles and rejects his friend—a process Messner calls the heterosexualisation of his masculinity.

With every chapter I am reminded of the discomfort the topic of privilege raises and how important that it should remain unsettling. I learn that Black men and working class White people, as privileged groups, are highly contested categories in the face of institutional racism and poverty. And dishearteningly, I discover that the gateway to social mobility undermined by the unearned privilege of being accepted to Ivy League colleges by virtue of having parents who are alumni.

Kimmel and Ferber's book takes us on a journey of self-reflection, of deconstructing the power of invisibility, and asks us some difficult questions about our many roles in maintaining oppression. But it does not try leave us beset with racial or class guilt. Rather, it invites us to pursue, both on a theoretical and practical level, ways of recognising the overlapping nature of social privileges and overcoming differences in the name of solidarity against oppressions.

Though Privilege: A Reader could be a more comprehensive, far-reaching catalogue of dominance, both insidious and overt, if it had taken on board the narrative of privilege from other non-White experiences and interrogated what being able-bodied and cisgendered mean. The absence of trans, disabled, Asian, and Native American voices speaks, ironically, of Kimmel's and Ferber's privilege of omitting these important experiences that are key to dismantling the edifice of privilege.

I praise Privilege: A Reader nonetheless, for its courage to speak from a place that prefers to remain silent, for raising attention to a things that want to stay hidden, and its overall critique of life's many taken for granted experiences and “common sense.” I'm sure Foucault would be proud of that.

Written by: Alicia Izharuddin, May 8th 2010

Nakigao (Crying Girl)

admin — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Amuse Soft Entertainment

You may have already heard about Nakigao (Crying Girl), a DVD released in Japan last month. It features eleven young Japanese actresses crying over real-life dramas they’ve had. And… that’s about it. The DVD is being marketed toward Japanese men, either for sexual or ego enjoyment purposes.

Given the wide rage of fetishes out there, especially when it comes to viewing women as victims or vulnerable, I’m not really surprised this DVD exists. But I’m really bothered by the lack of criticism it’s receiving from bloggers and news outlets, where it’s gotten any coverage at all. It’s been highlighted (in English-language blogs) as just one more “WTF, Japan” idiosyncrasy that also provides a fleeting glimpse into a gender status quo most Westerners take for granted.

Steve Levenstein over at Inventor Spot posted a somewhat cynical take of the DVD, but nonetheless concluded, “it seems that men in Japan need to have their 'conquering instinct' stoked up, and the way to do this is by watching beautiful women cry. Yep, in a nutshell: men feel stronger after experiencing the weakness of women. But hey—Japan is a different culture and Crying Girl just underlines that fact.” Levenstein notes, smartly or perhaps cheekily, that if a self-help tool for empowering men, which utilizes women as props to do so, were marketed in the U.S., “you’ll earn yourself a swift kick in the, er, nutshells.” Yet it’s okay to condone that dynamic in Japan? Maybe he didn’t feel empowered to take a feminist critique?

Posts didn’t ask questions about the deeper why of this DVD's existence, or whether they were doing something helpful or harmful by advertising it. Instead of being “culturally sensitive” (or culturally insensitive in a tongue in cheek way, which is what I think most of the blogs that posted about the DVD sought to be), such coverage is participating in the perpetuation of Western stereotypes about Japanese women as meek and submissive.

Most irksome to me is the surprising coverage this stupid DVD got into the May issue of Marie Claire. It was featured in the “Bulletin” section, which usually highlights items that are new, relevant, progressive, and pro-woman. Notes Marie Claire, “the film pitches itself as a self-help tool to empower men and stir up their ‘macho instincts’ by showing the ‘vulnerability’ of women.” Alongside informative and helpful bits about DC’s wack anti-prostitution initiative—which could get you arrested for carrying more than three condoms—and the fiftieth anniversary of the birth control pill (happy birthday, old friend!) was a toothless review-slash-apology for Crying Girls.

I think the author wanted to highlight it more as an oddity than anything else, but by not offering any kind of critique of the DVD, it came off as condoning, or presuming normative gender roles in Japan: “the sixty-three-minute sobfest promises that men won’t be able to resist the ‘pure tears and running noses’ and ‘sad sexy voices’ of the women reliving their misery. Whatever turns you on, right?”

It’s convenient to Otherize a taboo to make yourself feel more normal, but meanwhile child pornography and other disturbing fetishes are alive and well in the U.S. and all over the world. Marie Claire interviews a Japanese psychologist who confirms: “Japanese women are getting more powerful by the day, and men are experiencing a deep malaise of inadequacy.’ Anyone need a tissue?” And that’s where the article ends. Instead of making the newsy bit about how women in Japan are “getting more powerful by the day,” the story is the misogynistic prop that men need to make themselves feel better.

This is the exact same misreading of a potentially feminist storyline that I wrote about in January. The New York Times spun potentially good news—women are earning more—into an androcentric tale of female victimhood: men are marrying women for their money. Why does androcentrism seem to be more newsworthy than feminism? Is feminism a trope or something nowadays?

I don’t want to make a mountain out of a mole hill, but I wish that either this DVD wasn’t mentioned at all, or that, if it was, it was critiqued in a more thoughtful way. Instead of wasting ink describing how eleven women are crying to make businessmen feel macho, let’s use our 'ink' to talk about the under-sung work of Japanese feminists, and important regional groups like the Asia-Japan Women’s Resource Center.

If you’re thinking of ordering this ridiculous DVD, instead buy Broken Silence: Voices of Japanese Feminism. Then you’ll really learn something about the Japanese woman, as she speaks for herself.

Cross-posted with Gender Across Borders

Written by: Jessica Mack, April 28th 2010

Don’t Be a Dick

admin — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 09:00:00 +0000

By Paul Brown

Do-It-Yourself (DIY) culture has made an array of otherwise lofty topics accessible through the format of personal zines that aim to educate and inform—from bicycle maintenance to vegan cooking. In particular, the strong foothold that DIY culture has in radical politics and feminism has allowed for the creation of some radical, eye-opening work. Paul Brown’s zine, _Don’t Be a Dick, _is an archetypal DIY zine, complete with staples, a gray-washed Xeroxed background, hand-drawn pictures, and a curious layout. It looks as harmless as a playbill, but is unique to the DIY format in that it is a boldly personal account of a heterosexual male’s journey with consent.

Brown tackles a lot in the twenty-something pages that encompass his zine, such as constructions of masculinity, the United States as a rape culture, and definitions and approaches toward healthy consent. But Brown’s ambitious approach is also his major downfall. Don’t Be a Dick’s focus goes far beyond the limits of its pages, and while the topics Brown discusses are important and pertinent to comprehending consent and sexual assault as a whole, nothing more than a basic understanding is ultimately conveyed. This becomes a problem because, if Brown’s intention was to create a zine that is both informative and useful, neither goal is quite executed. He ends one section on the notion that men need to “wake up” and “hold each other accountable” but gives no clear indication as to how to accomplish either of these goals. Based on its ability to educate an array of people, I would be more recommend a zine like Cindy Crabb’s Learning Good Consent than I would this zine.

Brown’s zine is unique because of who he is—a man writing about male-to-female sexual assault. In the first few pages, the impetus for his zine is revealed—he once coerced an ex-partner into a non-consensual sex act and, after reading about consent, learned the true implications of his actions. Unfortunately, he went on to create a zine that is a digest of ideology found more thoroughly explored in zines like Learning Good Consent and Support rather than writing what he knows. My interest was most piqued by his perspective as a cisgendered man exploring the tricky landscape of consensual sex, such as the processing of the abovementioned story, or his deflated feelings towards pornography. I would like to see Brown adding his own voice into the discourse of radical consent instead of mimicking zines that already exist.

It is useful to have a heterosexual male narrative within the sphere of positive, responsible sexuality and refreshing, if not sobering, for a man to admit that he has committed an act of non-consensual sex. Stories like these are needed to aid in the awareness of consent, and Brown does a much better job than one of the only attempts I’ve read of a man taking accountability for his actions: zinester Rick Mackin’s column in Razorcake Magazine and subsequent zine that was far from the self-effacing, courteous, and sincere zine that Brown’s is.

Brown’s path to writing this zine is admirable and humble, and it is this path that I find to have the most potential for change and transformation within conversations about men’s role in consent and sexual assault. By taking the zines that inspired him and building from that, I believe Brown has a powerful jumping-off point for the hard and honest truths that will surface as consent and sexual assault continues to be discussed.

Written by: Krista Ciminera, February 25th 2010

Next of Kin: The Family in Chicano/a Cultural Politics

admin — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 09:00:00 +0000

By Richard T. Rodríguez

Duke University Press

Anyone can tell you that family is important to Mexican and Chicano culture, and we can all venture guesses as to why. However, where exactly this family unit seems to be headed and how it has evolved in U.S. popular culture over the past 25-30 years is what Richard Rodríguez chooses to scrutinize in his study—and he does so with unexpected wit.

Rodríguez's Next of Kin is structured into four chapters framed by an introduction and an afterword. His first chapter, "Reappraising the Family Archive," examines the predominance of the family in Chicano cultural production since the establishment of the explicitly Chicano movements in the early '70s. Here, Rodríguez displays evident skill in his pictorial analysis, a talent that is augmented by the inclusion of various reproductions of the materials that he is analyzing.

In the aptly named second chapter, "Shooting the Patriarch," Rodríguez's analysis traces the same phenomenon as it appears in the medium of film and television. Although he looks at many films and programs produced by Chicanos, he primarily focuses on the film Mi Familia. Remarkably, Rodríguez manages to avoid using the word "stereotype" in this chapter, at least for the first part of his breakdown of the film.

In the third chapter, "The Verse of the Godfather," Rodríguez very thoroughly traces the origins of Chicano rap music and hip-hop culture. However, we can only lament that he did not extend his discussion to specific lyrics, since he is especially skilled at textual analysis. We finally find this skill put to use in the too brief final chapter, entitled "Carnal Knowledge," where carnal refers to the Mexican Spanish "brotherly" aspect of kinship. Rodríguez investigates the construction of gay Chicano Culture, but once again, the chapter seems underdeveloped and this begs the question of insufficient material, since Rodríguez dates the outing of gay masculine Chicano culture as far back as 1981. Seeing as the book is otherwise well written and informative, we can but lament that almost one third of the book (some 80 pages out of 257) are devoted to notes and bibliography.

Much of Rodríguez's analysis in Next of Kin revolves around the construction of the Chicano identity as different from (and similar to) the construction of other gendered identities, such as African American identity. This comparative aspect is one of the conclusions that Rodríguez's book implies, but does not mention explicitly in its afterword. As American culture becomes more and more heterogeneous, it is undeniable that the (supposed) melting pot society will constantly construct new permutations of the Chicano identity and, as Rodríguez concludes in his afterword about the family, "community is made, and remade, ideally over and against normative familia romances whose hopeful passing will call forth its next of kin."

Written by: Sophie M. Lavoie, November 23rd 2009

Clint Eastwood and Issues of American Masculinity

admin — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 09:08:00 +0000

By Drucilla Cornell

Fordham University Press

It’s easy to confuse Clint Eastwood the actor with Clint Eastwood the director. Often concurrently inhabiting both roles, Eastwood’s prominence and skill as a director has garnered several Oscar nominations and wins for his thoughtful portrayals of men and women troubled by issues relating to gender, race, war, internal conflict, and psychic scars.

Eastwood’s pensive, rugged cowboy masculinity is worthy of its own analysis, but in Clint Eastwood and Issues of American Masculinity, Drucilla Cornell focuses on Eastwood as a director and producer. Dissecting such films as Play Misty for Me, Unforgiven, Mystic River, The Bridges of Madison County, Letters from Iwo Jima, and Million Dollar Baby, Cornell examines Eastwood’s delicate balance in directing himself, his portrayals of the West, and his repeated return to themes of failed fatherhood and militarized masculinity.

Eastwood’s characters—including those he portrays—are often solitary types, but are not without visible struggle. There seems to be a misconception that cowboys don’t experience or survive trauma. On the contrary, Eastwood shows that even lone, soulful male figures are more complex than usually perceived.

Eastwood’s character in Unforgiven, William Munny, is a perfect example of his directorial sensibilities about maleness, the West, failure, and redemption. In Eastwood’s West, the open plains represent opportunity for growth and a space for change. A reformed hired gunman, Munny consistently shows signs of haunting remorse and fatigue. The film is dedicated to Eastwood’s mentors Don Siegel (Dirty Harry) and Sergio Leone (The Man With No Name trilogy), and Eastwood’s advanced take on the Western genre is a welcome shift from that of his predecessors. Stoicism is overrated, and it should come as no surprise that Clint Eastwood is a better feminist than Sergio Leone.

As a director, Eastwood is able to bring issues of gender to the forefront without relying on clichés. In The Bridges of Madison County, Eastwood reverses the original book’s point of view, focusing on the female lead and her children. Female gaze is overwhelmingly ignored in Hollywood, yet Eastwood’s simple act of reorienting the story changes everything. Eastwood’s character is vulnerable, seeking a permanent relationship with a married Meryl Streep, and challenges most assumptions about sex and intimacy.

Cornell’s research and theory rests in part on the foundational work of scholars like Walter Benjamin and Jacques Lacan, but her work adds substantial media criticism—or in this case, praise—to the discipline. It is also highly accessible to lay audiences who have an interest in or knowledge about Eastwood’s directorial work. No doubt many fans of Eastwood’s directorial work will find additional reasons to examine his methods thanks to Cornell’s thoughtful, thorough analysis.

I’m already looking forward to an updated second edition, in which I hope Cornell will delve into portrayals of masculinity and race relations in recent releases like Gran Torino.

Written by: Brittany Shoot, August 9th 2009

Red Lights: The Lives of Sex Workers in Postsocialist China

admin — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 16:56:00 +0000

By Tiantian Zheng

University Of Minnesota Press

On one occasion, gangsters walked into the bar, grabbed me by the arm, and started dragging me up the stairs toward a private room intended for hostesses’ sexual encounters with clients. The women were also sometimes raped there by gangsters. I quickly realized what was going on—that I was in real danger... Whereas safety was a major issue, hygiene was another. Living in a filthy karaoke bar room without bathing facilities, I had lice in my hair and over my whole body. However, by living and working closely with hostesses in the bar, I gained their recognition and friendship.

Ethnographers always get their man (or woman... or both) even if they have to use their bodies as instruments of data collection and analysis. Ethnographers usually become participant-observers during fieldwork to facilitate rapport and to capture what people actually do as opposed merely to what they say they do, but as these snippets suggest, such can lead to squeamish feelings and harrowing experiences. Zheng participated in activities that male ethnographers could only have observed. Her analysis of sexual networking is consequently first-rate because she moves easily and persuasively from person to state, capital to labor, ideology to practice.

Red Lights is a beautifully written account of the emergence of new femininities and masculinities in post-socialist People’s Republic of China. Zheng analyzes the growth, structure, registration and functions of the karaoke bars now dotting the landscape and in which are played out the social and economic contradictions of class, heterosexuality, ethnicity and gender. In often grim detail, she shows how Communist Party bureaucrats, gangsters, and small business owners (literally) patronize young, unmarried females. In so doing, the former make money, express obeisance to their own social superiors, and get back at Mao Zedong for allegedly having sapped their masculinity during the Cultural Revolution. Women escape poverty (sort of), find boyfriends (ditto), manipulate men as best they can, and experience female solidarity. Her male informants freely express their disturbing misogyny while also confessing their sexual anxieties and class resentment. Confucianism, capitalism and communism each but differently punish women for alleged sexual promiscuity while rewarding men for theirs.

Many tens of thousands of Chinese women have migrated from economically and socially stagnating rural areas to the strip clubs and karaoke bars, back rooms, and guest houses of urban centers such as Dalian, where they “choose” forms of employment that entail grotesque subservience, daily humiliation, squalid working conditions, and social leprosy. Dalian was long ago hailed as an oasis of economic development during the period of Occupation by the Japanese military in the 1930s and 1940s. Its morally unsavory status today as a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah—but whose economic function is central to post-socialist China—reveals the social and economic contradictions of Confucianism, patriarchy, communism, Western media forms and capitalism. “In Dalian,” Zheng writes, “taxes paid by the entertainment industry are the largest source of local revenue.”

Red Lights opens with Zheng’s painful personal stories of growing up a filial daughter in a sex-negative and patriarchal Chinese household. It continues with her painful humiliation in a U.S. college classroom regarding her views of gender relations. It proceeds to detail the humiliation of Chinese women. Her extremely sorrowful Afterword, entitled “From Entertainer to Prostitute,” shows the inexorable logic of patriarchy and capitalism and gives the lie to pro-sex work activist positions that can neglect or ignore specifically gendered humiliation in sex work. Her Acknowledgments section deeply moved me in recounting the joys and pains of scholarly work. It exemplifies the beauty and honor of academic collaborations that break through barriers of geography, language, culture, theory and gender but that are nevertheless mindful of them.

Red Lights would make a fine addition to graduate-level courses in social theory and fieldwork, but could be used in upper-division courses in gender studies and ethnography, too. It is a major contribution to ethnographic explorations of gender, sexuality, and prostitution, and to Asian Studies, too, which has enabled too few participant observation-style studies of sexual networking.

Written by: Lawrence James Hammar, Ph.D., August 7th 2009

Big Man Japan

admin — Fri, 15 May 2009 14:14:00 +0000

Directed by Hitoshi Matsumoto

Magnolia Pictures

The experience of watching Big Man Japan, directed by and also starring Hitoshi Matsumoto, is akin to the pleasure of watching a five-year-old running on a child-size hamster wheel in the park. One alternates between confusion, amusement, and boredom as the aesthetic combines and alternates between the humor of a Hollywood slapstick, the visual dynamic of a video game, and the tone of a documentary. This rhythm kept my mind clear to wonder: why is it that movies seeking to illustrate male impotence give the man longer than is generally considered socially acceptable hair and female friends—if any friends at all?

In Big Man Japan, Matsumoto tells the story of the current Big Man; part soldier, part icon, it is the job of the Big Man to protect Japan from monsters. Living in his regular size, of an average height, when on call, the Big Man is zapped into enormity when needed. However, the superhero’s identity is not a secret, and as his popularity wanes, his fence is scrawled with graffiti, and his lawn is covered with trash. Rocks are thrown through his window, to which the Big Man responds by meekly covering the broken panes with cardboard and going about his day. The central character of this film, although a larger-than-life male, is meant to be perceived as a woman as opposed to a big man—weak, sentimental, and incompetent.

Standing in stark contrast is the other character in the movie, a woman. Perpetually trying to make money, the Big Man’s agent—a harpy in either high heels or pimping tracksuit, complete with a pair of larger-than-life dogs and too-cool-for-school stance—objectifies him by placing endorsements across his chest. At a potential turning point in the film, he declares to his disinterested agent, “No matter what, I will never surrender my hips” completing the image of impotence the viewer has already formed of him. The battle is won, the endorsement is placed on his back, but he is thoroughly emasculated.

While there are mounting covert and overt sexual and political references throughout the film, all of them are magnified by the documentary tone set by the filmmakers. The film runs as snippets placed together to create a narrative around this hero who is anything but.

Written by: Elisheva Zakheim, May 15th 2009