rape

Rad Dad #18: Sex & Love

tina — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 20:00:00 +0000

After a promising introduction I was ready to absorb the essays that lay before me in Rad Dad #18: Sex & Love, a short zine concerning radical parenting with narratives exploring issues of sex and love. Needless to say, this zine made me feel a range of emotions: offended, entertained, informed, and bored. Some of these essays do not concern love or sex or are only very loosely related to the topics in an abstract way.

Rad Dad himself falls flat in his own personal essay. Using movie script queues, he rambles from one point to the next about memories and experiences that are loosely related or not connected at all. The author's entertaining writing style, passion, and experience are worthy of better organization and editing.

The third essay in the zine, entitled “Making Love,” was bad. I'm still reeling from reading a man's recount of a newly polyamorous relationship. When his wife comes home from an arranged date with another man, the jealous husband thought about sexually assaulting her and “not caring how she felt.” Though he didn't act on these thoughts ("I didn't want to look aggressive"), it was completely unexpected and terrible, especially when it was so graphically detailed. There was no warning; just an in-your-face, deal-with-this description of how he would rape someone. He also goes into detail about cheating on this same woman, years prior. The writer's colorful writing when recounting these gross experiences only cheapens them more. For a few days after reading this, I felt nauseated whenever I’d recall the author's words.

There's also an essay about child nudity and another about a person "breaking up" with the anarchist community. Many of the writers talk about their preference for polyamarous relationships. Some even insult monogamy, which I found unnecessary and misguided. There are a few essays by radical parents who talk about sex, love, and dating in relation to being a parent. I feel that these authors truly understood the zine's topics, while offering their own personal knowledge and experiences. This compilation would have benefitted from more essays like these.

My favorite part of this zine was the last section, “An Interview With Dr. White.” The interview was engaging and interesting and I wish it went on longer and was featured more prominently.

While I am against censoring voices, I feel this zine would have benefited from basic editing. A simple "trigger warning" before graphic material would be a great start. A few snips and cuts to a rambling essay would help the reader understand the authors' intentions and sticking closer to the zine’s topics would be a major improvement.

Written by: Jacquie Piasta, April 9th 2011

Rape New York

beth — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 20:00:00 +0000

By Jana Leo

Feminist Press

Rape New York: Jana Leo’s title seems to defiantly ask its readers to ‘rape’ New York. It also simultaneously turns ‘rape’ into an adjective with which to describe New York City. Fascinated with this title, I pondered the difference a comma could have made. Rape, New York would then turn ‘rape’ into a borough of the city. This wordplay is not insignificant in Leo’s ultimate argument.

Leo begins the book with a straightforward and chilling narration of the day she was "non-violently raped" by a stranger in her Harlem apartment. The rest of the book narrates not only the six years following the assault but also how she came to live in New York City in the first place, and specifically how she came to live in the apartment in which she was raped. Through referencing place in the book's title, Leo locates 'rape' directly and uncomfortably beside New York, thereby exemplifying her major argument: namely, that (literal and metaphorical) location matters. Gender, poverty, and race are factors that matter in determining who rapes whom and who gets raped. These factors also contribute to one’s relationship to space, and rape and space have a close relationship indeed.

Leo considers the many ways place, particularly the places we identify as 'home', is bound up in the act of rape. Leo describes in great detail her feelings and experience of displacements following her rape. As the rape occurred in her home, Leo has nowhere to go to feel safe afterward—the rape took the security of home away from her. She insightfully considers how most rapes occur in, or in close proximity to, women's homes, and beautifully weaves this together with a critique of home as a female/feminine space.

In her systemic analysis of the factors that caused her rape, Leo focuses on the lack of security in her apartment and how and why dangerous places are both created by and uphold capitalism. She accessibly writes about the deep connections between the low-income neighborhoods filled with people of color that disproportionately fill prisons and how these neighborhoods are the ones that become gentrified locations for urban development—spelling out the way capitalism benefits from poverty and creates high crime areas in the interest of devaluing property that can then be 'developed' by the rich. That her rape occurred in a badly kept apartment on a block in Harlem under the control of a grossly wealthy, philanthropist slum landlord is no accident, explains Leo.

Leo understands the difficult line she walks (and I would argue she walks it successfully) between widening the scope of ‘blame’ from the individual who perpetrated her rape to the wider system of capitalist, racist, and misogynist societal causes. She does not deny the rapist's personal agency nor erase the choice a perpetrator makes to commit rape. In one of her most challenging conclusions, Leo writes, “The fact that rapes relate to poverty, especially the perpetrator’s poverty, makes it, to a certain extent, a default effect of capitalist exploitation and not simply the result of mental illness.” Leo fights the urge to simply pathologize the perpetrator by suing her landlord for his negligent role in her rape by failing to providing a safe and secure building in which rape (and other crimes) would less easily occur.

Leo’s powerful voice and clear minded critique make her a fine guide through the messy terrain of overlapping oppressions and sexual violence. While dealing with complicated intersections, and often adopting an academic tone, Rape New York is an accessible and extremely valuable addition to the conversation of violence against women.

Written by: Sam McBean, March 30th 2011

Leaving Art: Writings on Performance, Politics, and Publics, 1974-2007

mandy — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Suzanne Lacy

Duke University Press

A student of Judy Chicago and Allan Kaprow, Suzanne Lacy’s collection of essays about her performance art pieces showcases not only Lacy’s development as a powerhouse feminist artist of her time but also the changing landscape of political art throughout the past four decades. Following a thoughtful introduction by her friend Moira Roth, Leaving Art traces Lacy’s self-criticism, the intended meaning behind her pieces, and reflections about the effectiveness of her work, at times in journal form (e.g., “While I was working on this piece I figured out why it has been so hard for me to consider myself grown up”) and at times as she reflects about the meaning of art more broadly. As an introduction to Lacy’s work, or as an in-depth look at Lacy’s artistic process, the book will appeal both to those newly familiar with Lacy or with those who have long followed her career.

Cleverly titled, Lacy intends Leaving Art as a meditation on the various objects and stories she and her colleagues have left behind; still more, the title implies that their collective departure from the art world—through retirement or even death—looms imminently. Aside from considering what it means to leave art, the volume addresses a startling array of subjects: rape, violence, gender, race, speaking across identities, sexuality, power, injustice, challenging institutions, solitude, connection, friendship, speech acts, performance, and community. Lacy’s impact on feminist art reveals itself throughout the book not by loud proclamations of her importance, but via a layered portrait of how her work chipped away at the injustices she saw happening around her and to her.

During the early days of feminist consciousness raising, Lacy tackled such difficult topics as the role of prostitution in a feminist politics, the dismemberment of women’s bodies (metaphorically and literally), and the process of witnessing a rape narrative. She followed these pieces with sweeping tableau vivant performances where she drew together over 400 performers to converse and dialogue in public view along the shores of La Jolla, CA. Her later pieces, drawing together such disparate subjects as Buddhist philosophy and police brutality, engaged people in performance demonstrations where they confronted each other in order to challenge powerful social ills like racism and sexism. In each decade, Lacy reinvented herself as artist and social critic.

Pushing art as a mechanism for social change, she admitted in the 1990s to questioning “whether it was possible for artists to exert a substantial impact on communities…; whether civic institutions could be significantly recruited for social and aesthetic claims; and how to transform hundreds, even thousands of personal attitudes that might, in turn, be measured through policy outcomes.” Certainly, Lacy’s work responded to these questions by adamantly demanding that art (and artists) continually re-imagine themselves in relation to their political usefulness. In particular, Lacy’s work prioritizes the urgency of listening to marginalized voices just as it delves into content that lies beneath the surface of our lives. Lacy provokes us to consider what has become forcibly out of sight (e.g., stories of cancer, narratives of rape, privilege of Whiteness), and what we drive underground because of fear, shame, and the difficulty of seeing ourselves.

Written by: Breanne Fahs, October 24th 2010

The Photograph

gwen — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Nan Achnas

The Global Film Initiative

The Photograph begins with an old man slowly examining old photographs with his hands. The viewer feels almost intrusive watching the gnarled fingers pass over the pictures he knows so well that he need only touch their frames to bring the images to mind. The slow, tender motions of the old man are a direct contrast to the brash, young protagonist, Sita, who is introduced in the next scene.

At first glance, Sita is a young, immature, and breathtakingly beautiful woman who sings in a karaoke bar. The audience soon realizes, however, that Sita is working to support her young daughter and ailing grandmother back home. She works not only as a singer but also a prostitute. Her pimp is a vile and violent man who physically assaults her, screams at her, cuts off contact from her daughter, and demands money.

The Photograph does not romanticize, degrade, or judge Sita’s choice to become a prostitute. Instead, it paints the very realistic portrayal of survival sex, and how it destroys women by trapping them in a cycle of poverty and violence. That Sita is gang raped by johns and still continues to work is something all of the characters accept. This is a pragmatic view of the necessity of dangerous work for women who have no other viable options. By avoiding the “hooker with a heart of gold” stereotype, and showing the stark reality of some women’s experience, Nan Achnas makes Sita even more heartbreaking.

Sita also cleans and cooks for Mr. Johan, the elderly photographer we met in the opening scene. A begrudging host, he soon realizes Sita needs some kindness, and he needs to make peace with his own demons before he dies. Both Sita and Mr. Johan find acceptance in one another: two broken and bruised people just trying to survive.

The Photograph could have been shorter, as there were many scenes with no music or dialogue in which very little action happened. Despite these scenes, I became invested in Sita and Mr. Johan as the film progressed, and found myself living in their reality, which is light-years away from my living room. There were a few minor errors with the English subtitles, but nothing that significantly took away from the dialogue.

I thoroughly enjoyed Achnas’ decision to let the characters in The Photograph exist in their own reality, instead of within the context of some grand statement. The film depicts quiet and seemingly insubstantial lives intersecting to create a few moments of happiness, despite all the odds against it. After all, is this not how the universe actually works?

Cross-posted at Gender Across Borders

Written by: Colleen Hodgetts, October 18th 2010

Lynchpin #1

payal — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By William Brian MacLean

RoosterTree ComicLit

You’re a bold Canadian Mr. MacLean. For your first full-length comic, Lynchpin #1, you decide to tackle sexual assault in high school, and then sent it to the Elevate Difference. You even went so far as to specifically request our uncensored assessment. Well, you asked for it.

Though you clearly had the best of intentions and appear to want to help your friend find a little justice by sharing her story with the world, you missed the mark. Your courage in tackling this very personal subject matter is astounding. Few people, and possibly even fewer men, would dare such a thing in a comic book. But the story to the many, many women and men affected by this issue is extremely triggering with no warning to them at all. Noting only lust, villainy, philosophy, heroism, survival, confession, and chewing gum as topics covered was incredibly misleading to me (though it may not be so for others). There were so many opportunities to allude to the plot line of comic before diving into it. The most obvious to me is Alanna’s (the author’s friend who is the survivor) opening frames.

As Alanna calls it, this is her true high school story, and it is the slut-shaming aspect of assault, captured here so well that, to me, makes it so true. Rarely are there fictional depictions of young women who are shown before and after an assault and how that changes their day-to-day life, most specifically here being labeled a “slut.”

From simply a visual perspective, I think the work is really strong. Your panels are incredibly well laid out and balanced in their diversity, and your illustration has a voice of its own. You just have to let it speak for itself. Your character’s Modigliani-like eyes say so much alone, don’t be afraid to depend on your art more. There is no need for you to step into the comic as a character yourself. That transgression, though seemingly personally necessary, distracts from the power of the story. Your apologies to the universe from men everywhere is only making yourself feel better.

I hope this is a sufficiently uncensored assessment for your liking.

Written by: Nicole Levitz, October 5th 2010

I Spit On Your Grave

admin — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 02:00:00 +0000

Directed by Steven R. Monroe

CineTel Films

There's very little chance of spoiling anyone with this review. The original I Spit On Your Grave is notorious, if not for its legend then for its lingering controversy, especially amongst feminists. Meir Zarchi, writer and director of the 1978 film, apparently based his simple rape-revenge story on his own experience finding a woman who had been brutally beaten and raped near a park in New York City. Zarchi's vision, a tale where the victim would get bloody revenge on her attackers, may not have been an act of feminism, but it was certainly intended as one of sympathy. How it managed to end up the most infamous exploitation film of all time—complete with ads featuring a half-naked heroine shot from behind, her rear-end prominent and her hand clutching a butcher knife—was probably mostly the result of marketing (Zarchi's original title for the film, the one that he still prefers, was Day of the Woman).

Still, Zarchi's film is extremely misguided, even within its own context. There is little to no character development, for the attackers or the attacked, making the rape scenes implausible, and Jennifer, the film's "heroine," uses her sexuality to lure her rapists in for her revenge, even going so far as to have consensual sex with one of them. For this and many other reasons, I do think I Spit On Your Grave was begging to be remade, if not for Zarchi's redemption then for those of us who were left deeply uncomfortable (and dissatisfied) by it.

Steven Monroe's revamp may tell the same story, but it's a different film altogether. The actors are much more relatable and likeable, even Jennifer's attackers (including a charming Jeff Branson and Daniel Franzese of Mean Girls fame), and though we aren't given too much of anyone's history, every character comes off as thoroughly real, many with both dark urges and childlike insecurity. Jennifer (Sarah Butler) is written as much more skeptical than her predecessor, a young but smart, feisty, modern update.

The motive behind the boys' invasion of Jennifer's lakeside cabin, though disturbing in its implications for the dynamics among young men, is made clear, and appropriately, their torment of her starts off as much more psychological than physical. In fact, it's not until Jennifer escapes from them and stumbles upon the town sheriff (Andrew Howard) in the woods that the attack begins in earnest. It becomes unclear whether or not the boys would have gone so far as to rape Jennifer if the sheriff hadn't gotten involved, as he becomes a despicable sort of ringleader for the entire incident. Considering Zarchi's overseeing of Monroe's remake, this choice could very well have been a nod to his personal experience taking the young rape victim he encountered to an unsympathetic police station.

Monroe's rendering of Jennifer's rape is frantic and horrible, shot not unlike a battle scene in a war film. He never empathizes with her attackers, though Jennifer is certainly not made out to be completely helpless; we see her fighting or seeking escape at every given opportunity, creating an interesting harbinger of the ruthlessness she'll later inflict on them. There is an eerie strength in the way she walks away from them afterward, bloodied and beaten, and lets herself fall off a bridge, disappearing into the water below like a ghost.

The revenge portion of the film is gratuitous in its violence and, for that very reason, incredibly satisfying. The original's seduction is taken out of the torment, Jennifer subjecting her attackers to a long, torturous death that is somewhat symbolic for each of them. Though I'm more squeamish than most, I actually found myself laughing out loud at these horribly gruesome scenes—and I wasn't the only one. So long as Jennifer's rapists were getting theirs, the entire audience wasn't anything less than thrilled.

Unlike with Zarchi's film, I never found any of Jennifer's nudity gratuitous or even vaguely sexual in the remake. Even so, I Spit On Your Grave Redux reprises the exploitative marketing of the original, the film's poster nearly identical to the first. Whether this is a ploy to attract exploitation buffs or simply homage to Zarchi's film is irrelevant to Monroe's intentions. I suppose sex sells, even if it's non-consensual.

Still, I think it's important to realize that the new I Spit On Your Grave is not meant to be a political statement on rape or a realistic portrayal of a rape victim coming to terms with trauma. It's meant as a catharsis, pure and simple. Is it a feminist one? To answer that would require answering the question of what feminism is, which, these days, is more dangerous than some of the acts committed by the film's heroine. When political debate fails, I have to go with my gut (or guts, as the case may be) for a verdict: I Spit on Your Grave is a refreshing and deeply gratifying film that left me feeling somehow vindicated.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, September 30th 2010

Thief

alicia — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Maureen Gibbon

Sarah Crichton Books

“This night I was trying to describe what my orgasms were like, but I doubted if what I wanted to say would sound compelling to anyone but me...” explains Suzanne, before writing a letter to a convicted rapist who is serving his sentence in prison and whom she has established a relationship with.

Maureen Gibbon’s Thief is the story of Suzanne, a complex woman trying to make sense of her own rape, while exploring her own sexuality. Gibbon creates a multi-layered character, an average woman with a troubled past who lives a secluded life and for the most part, likes to have superficial relationships, without letting anyone into her life.

What’s most riveting about this short novel is the style in which Gibbon lets the reader into the very private life of Suzanne. Thief is a short novel, and the reader might be compelled to read it in one sitting. Each chapter is an intimate view of Suzanne’s thoughts, the kind of thoughts that are rarely discussed, especially because they seem fleeting and extremely personal. The protagonist describes her innermost sexual thoughts and experiences, from masturbation to her fantasies and even to her attack. It is at this point that there is a sense of voyeurism, a bond with what goes through Suzanne’s head. Gibbon allows the reader into the deepest secrets of Suzanne and there’s an understanding of her feelings of shame and guilt, an understanding that Suzanne herself is lacking.

Thief is written in a raw style and yet it doesn’t appear vulgar or cliché; instead, it’s a direct look into a woman’s thoughts and the path she explores to understand own self. The novel is well written and engaging; the story of a woman who, through sexual acceptance, reaches another level of self-discovery.

Written by: Jessica Sánchez, September 22nd 2010

Death to the Dictator!: A Young Man Casts a Vote in Iran’s 2009 Election and Pays a Devastating Price

admin — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 00:05:00 +0000

By Afsaneh Moqadam

Sarah Crichton Books

Less than one year after Iranian demonstrators took to the streets to protest the fraudulent re-election of hardliner Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as President of the Islamic Republic, writer Afsaneh Moqadam tells the true story of Mohsen Abbaspour, a man in his early twenties who votes for the Reformist party and its leader Mir-Hossein Mousavi. Swept up in the euphoria of possible change, the once politically apathetic Mohsen finds himself alongside his friends and fellow reformists in the streets posing the greatest challenge to Iranian authorities since the 1979 Islamic Revolution. The Presidential Guard, Basijis and police eventually suppress the demonstrators through brutal force and mass arrests. Like many fellow citizens, Mohsen is arrested, taken to the notorious Evin prison and then to Kahrizak. He is repeatedly interrogated, tortured, and raped until he is finally released on August 29, 2009.

In the letter that accompanied this book, the publisher vouches for the truthfulness of this account and informs us that a pseudonym has been used to protect the author’s identity. Given the relatively short period since the events of June 2009, the requisite anonymity is unsurprising, especially since Moqadam could well be Abbaspour. This book offers an insider account of what transpired in June 2009 from the perspective of a twenty-something secular protester and gives the reader a rare glimpse into how a young Iranian views the ruling party, his parents’ generation of revolutionaries and the shift in power from the mullahs to the neo-fascist Revolutionary Guard and its protector, Ahmadinejad. This perspective is particularly significant when we consider that Mohsen and his generation are largely the result of a pronatalist policy implemented in the 1980s in order to create an Islamic army of twenty million. This policy backfired producing a baby boom made up of individuals similar to Mohsen: educated with bleak employment opportunities and little if any interest in military service.

Another interesting aspect of the story is the speed at which change apparently occurred. Shadi, a veteran of the 1979 Islamic Revolution, tells Mohsen that it took them a year or two to get as far as the reformists had in just two weeks. Moreover, just ten days after the stolen election, brazen and fearless protesters began chanting the previously inconceivable, “Death to Kamenei!” The story sheds light on how technology acted as a catalyst in this revolt. In spite of using spy-ware provided by a major cellphone maker and slowing Internet speed to a snail’s pace, the authorities were unable to keep up with the transfer of information and images through new technology and social media.

Although many readers will find the rape and torture difficult to stomach, this part of the story must nevertheless be told. The more people become aware of rape and torture, the greater the likelihood that one day they will take a stand against these acts. Death to the Dictator! reads like a true account; however, in addition to a few structural problems, the English was somewhat stilted, which did interfere with the flow of the story and led me to believe that this book was released prematurely. Nevertheless, if you’re interested in knowing more about one Iranian’s experience during this tumultuous time then you will enjoy this book.

Written by: Heather Leighton, August 30th 2010

Manhater

admin — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 00:01:00 +0000

Directed by Anthony Doublin

Canyon Falls Productions

I recall visiting a horror movie convention soon after Kill Bill had come out. Nearly every film production table had at least one "sexy lady getting revenge" movie poster predominantly on display. Attractive female murderers are the perfect shortcut to fulfilling violence and sex in films. Over the years, the number of "lady revenge" movies has dwindled.

However, there are a few stragglers being produced, like Manhater. Manhater is described as "horror... with a good, unique story," but to consider it a horror film is questionable. Instead, I consider it a supernatural film with a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde plot, punctuated with gore and nudity.

The story is neither good nor unique. The plot is, well, this: An abuse survivor takes a magic potion from a witch, and the potion makes a demon appear. The demon kills all the men that hurt the woman, but the witch is actually involved with the woman's rapist. The rapist wants to control the demon and has a glowing necklace that he holds while talking gibberish at the demon. Yes, you read correctly.

First, kudos to the crew and performers who stuck it out until the end! I wonder if they were paid; hopefully, they were at least fed lunch. Some of the performers went by aliases in the credits. Were they embarrassed to be in this film? Also, the film score earned "Best Original Soundtrack at Idyllwild," though I hardly noticed it.

This film’s creators don't seem to have valued good production in any form. The camera work varies anywhere from poor to acceptable quality. I noticed camera shakes, awkward movements, and questionable shots. The lighting is sometimes off or completely absent. There are a few outdoor scenes in pitch-black darkness. The audio doesn't always sync up with its source. Lips are moving without sound at times, like in poorly dubbed kung-fu films. The editing is unclean. Many cuts did not mesh well with others or were abruptly cut off.

The makeup is better meant for a theatrical stage, not a film screen. Big, false eyelashes are distracting and corny on movie performers. Also, at one point, a woman has paintbrush stripes on her cheeks for blush. The acting talent ranges from non-existent to lukewarm. These performers would have shone more if they were given character roles with more than one dimension. The characters are unrealistic, unlikable, or both.

Also, there is a Token Black Female Best Friend in this film. You know, in predominantly white films, we sometimes see a black female best friend who has no real personality other than to act as a cheerleader for the (usually bitter) white female protagonist (as in the film Julie and Julia). The story gets more ridiculous by the second, the plot holes are vast, and the dialogue is vapid. The special effects, while respectable on such a low budget, are pretty dorky.

Most problematic, this film begins with a rape scene. It's obviously fake, but still graphic, and insensitive to both performers and viewers alike. If a movie absolutely requires such a scene, then it needs to do it with understanding and discretion. Later in the movie, the survivor talks to the abuser; not just once, but often, and in a mildly annoyed tone more appropriate towards someone who owes her money, not someone who has brutally assaulted her. She even accepts an invitation to join him alone in his house.

The writer of this film clearly does not understand the seriousness of sexual assault, instead confusing it with edgy sex. The fact that he botched this topic, as well as the film’s overt objectification of women and senseless gore, proves that Manhater is just another cheap combo platter of sex and violence to be devoured by stupid people.

Written by: Jacquie Piasta, August 10th 2010

Voces Zine (Summer 2010, Issue 3)

admin — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Edited by Noemi Martinez

The Voices Against Violence Project

Unapologetic. Raw. Honest.

The third issue of Voces Zine is a collection of poetry by artists from different communities—indigenous, people of color, trans, and queer—sharing their experiences as survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Originally inspired by a small community of Latino immigrants, this issue represents a first-time inclusion of contributors from outside of its original roots.

The eclectic air of the compilation reflects this shift. During an interview I asked editor Noemi Martinez about the strengths and weaknesses of such a model; she discussed how the stories could be competing or compatible, but that each needed to be told. I appreciated her insight and find this invites a greater audience, while also revealing the individual ways we experience violence against women. Some stories might resonate with one reader more than others, but each exposes the important variance of dynamics in surviving violence: blaming, loving, mistrusting, self-hating, empowering, forgiving, healing, hiding, ignoring, being vulnerable, being strong, being uncertain, being alone, being supported.

At times I felt I could sympathize with each word (“unwrap your bandages/let them wounds breathe/let them scab and itch/and fall/away”), with the uncertainty (“am i better?”), and with the paradox of anger and barren strength (“i aint no fucking weak, limp, helpless, shaking, hiding, trembling, dying, lonely, battered girl. i’m a woman with a black eye.”). Other writings left me unattached or distant, to which I cite Martinez’s foreword, “There is no guarantee how one will react to a particular writing when you are a survivor…as a reader, you might find these writings triggering, not helpful, judgemental [sic], totally off, fucked up, questionable, right on, brutally honest, truthful inspiring.” The point: take from Voces Zine what you can relate to, learn from what you might not, and leave the rest behind.

Voces Zine was created to support survivors and to provide a teaching tool for discussion and understanding of what violence against women means. While the variety of themes provide this type of catalyst, at times the compilation seemed to be more of a therapeutic outlet for each contributor. To this end, I do not fault the project, but commend it for its ability to provide a space in which “victim, survivor, thriver” can share, question, and grow.

I admire each of the contributors for finding the strength to speak up and write out and urge any person questioning, challenged by, or curious about violence against women to take a look through Voces Zine. In the interview, Martinez explained, “I’m not an editor. I’m not professional.” Although I believe she has proven her worth of both titles with this endeavour, the humility of her statement is yet another reflection of the DIY compassion and grassroots foundation of this project. Voces Zine is more than words on paper; it’s a resource of hope, inspiration, and healing.

Written by: Ani Colekessian, July 7th 2010

The Mockingbirds

admin — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Daisy Whitney

Little Brown Books for Young Readers

I don’t know how many times I can say a book is one of the best I’ve read this year and maintain any credibility; we’ve still got quite a few months left in 2010, so I guess we’ll find out. The thing is, I’m pretty convinced that this is a golden age for YA, and Daisy Whitney’s The Mockingbirds really is a phenomenal debut novel–one of the best I’ve read this year.

Last summer, I took a Children’s Lit class at Cal State University, Northridge. During the course of a discussion on censorship, which everyone was unanimously against initially, we began to question whether there were any topics that people would really consider off limits for YA or children’s lit. When students started to consider what they might not want their own children to read, people discovered that they all had boundaries, each person has some point at which they would be uncomfortable having a kid or teen read a book. For many people, that boundary was rape. Now, I acknowledge the right of any parent to determine what is acceptable for their own child to read, but of course that is extremely different from determining what other people’s children should be allowed to read. The fact is that, according to several studies I found, about forty percent of reported rape cases occurred to people under the age of eighteen. Rape happens to teens far too often, and they have a right to read about it.

In The Mockingbirds, Alex is raped after a drunken night out at a club. She wakes up the next morning in a boy’s room, naked, and discovers two condoms in the trashcan. The trouble is that Alex can barely remember anything that happened that night, but her friends know that she was in no condition to consent. Alex attends a progressive boarding school where punishment is rarely meted out because the school believes the students can do no wrong, but a group of students called the Mockingbirds serve as the school’s vigilante justice system, taking students’ punishments into their own hands. After Alex’s rape, the Mockingbirds become protectors, judges, and jurors. As the investigation and trial are underway, Alex begins to remember bits and pieces of what happened to her, and she knows that the sex was not consensual.

Whitney’s book, inspired by her own experience of being date raped in college, is vividly and powerfully written. I was on the verge of tears throughout most of it. This is not to say that the book didn’t have light moments, because there certainly are some, but the overall intensity and my amazement at what I was reading kept me pretty emotional. In addition to Whitney’s beautiful capturing of Alex’s feelings throughout the book, she also did an impressive job incorporating details from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, on which the school’s justice system is based. (However, those who haven’t read the classic will find that enough explanation is provided to understand everything in this book anyway. But they should still read Harper Lee’s book because it is truly one of the best of all time.) The book was clearly well researched all around, from the descriptions of the classical music Alex plays to Martin the science geek’s mini-lessons on bird intellect. Martin and the other supporting characters were also thoroughly fleshed out, each one with their own story that adds to the book’s strength.

The Mockingbirds shows readers that there can be consequences to stupid drunken behavior, but that if you are raped, you are still the victim and you still have options. It also portrays the importance of speaking out, because even if you will never be who you were before, you cannot let the rape eat away at you and define you forever. In Whitney’s book, Alex does not reach out to any authorities, but she still finds a support system within her school and makes it clear that you do not have to be alone. The novel is never preachy, nor does it stray into feminist manifesto, but it does lend a voice to those who often have difficulty finding their own. At the end of the book, Whitney shares some of her own story and provides resources for people who have experienced sexual assault.

Cross-posted at Reclusive Bibliophile

Written by: Melanie Goodman, June 30th 2010

The Hanging of Susanna Cox: The True Story of Pennsylvania’s Most Notorious Infanticide and the Legend That’s Kept It Alive

admin — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Corinne Earnest, Patricia Earnest Suter, Russell Earnest

Stackpole Books

The story of Susanna Cox, as detailed in Patricia Earnest Suter, Russell Earnest, and Corinne Earnest’s The Hanging of Susanna Cox, nearly perfectly follows the trajectory of the seduction of the mid-to-late eighteenth century: a naive girl is lured from her family, “seduced” (often, in actuality, raped), left by her lover (or rapist), and left to die alone. Seduction novels were simultaneously didactic, propagandistic, prurient, and hugely popular. What differentiates the story of Susanna Cox from the seduction novel is that Cox was a real woman, indentured at the age of fourteen and hung in Pennsylvania for infanticide in 1809 when she was in her early twenties.

The authors tease out the details of Cox’s short life, trial, and execution against the backdrop of the changes to the United States, forensics, the justice system, and the public’s perception of crime. This is all intriguing, albeit concerning, information. The evidence of Cox’s guilt was sparse, her trial exceptionally brief, and the details provided by the authors about her public execution horrific. At Cox’s brief trial, women connected to the case do not testify, nor does the father of Cox’s son, who is not so much as named in public records. Regardless of her guilt or innocence, in many ways Cox’s life was tragic, and the book is particularly sad to read in that her case was likely in no way unique, particularly amongst “invisible” indentured women.

What I found most interesting about the book was the emergence of Cox’s “notorious” status and the visibility that came to her after her death. The authors note, “At the very time Susanna’s life came to an end, her story came alive through the words of printers.” Perhaps because her story was so similar to the type of seduction tale told in countless novels and stories at the time, broadsides and poems about the case were printed simultaneous to her trial and execution, and were widely sold. The story endured. The book opens with the authors’ visit to the Kutztown Folk Festival in 2008—199 years after Cox’s execution—at which one exhibit is the repeated hanging of an effigy of Cox. Although this hanging of Cox’s effigy culminates with a quote from one of the poems about Cox (“Her exit–infamy!”), what is intriguing is that the poems about her are factual, didactic, and moralistic, but also somewhat sympathetic.

Although there are many unanswered questions about the life of Susanna Cox, the authors have assembled an impressive array of facts. As someone who had never heard of Susanna Cox or her execution before reading the book and who has never visited the area in which the story is famous, the book occasionally delved into too much local and geographical detail for me; however, The Hanging of Susanna Cox was still a book that I read with interest and speed, eager to learn more about the story. Beyond just the case of Susanna Cox, which is engaging but frustrating for the impossibility of decisive answers, the book is also a portrayal of a justice system and population in a state of significant change.

Written by: Erin Schowalter, June 16th 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

The Red Riding Trilogy

admin — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 00:00:00 +0000

Directed by Julian Jarrold, James Marsh, Anand Tucker

Channel Four Film

Movies about rape, murder, and child abuse should not be photographed this beautifully. Channel Four Film’s Red Riding Trilogy, shown as a miniseries in the UK but as three movies in the U.S., is one larger story connected by characters, place and the unrepentant horror of Yorkshire, in the northern England. In the north, as the characters say, they do what they want.

The three films are set in three years, 1974, 1980, and 1983, respectively. The first, 1974, directed by Julian Jarrold, focuses on Andrew Garfield’s Eddie Dunford, the new crime reporter for the Yorkshire Post, and his investigation into the disappearance of three young girls, the most recent found with wings sewn into her back. The second, 1980, directed by James Marsh, focuses on Paddy Considine’s Peter Hunter, a Manchester detective brought to Yorkshire to review the police’s handling of the Yorkshire Ripper, a serial killer. The third, 1983, directed by Anand Tucker, has two focuses: the first is on David Morrisey’s Maurice Jacbson, a corrupt detective having second thoughts, and the second is Mark Addy’s Eddie Pigford, a local boy turned lawyer who returns home to close his mother’s affairs and gets tangled up in the crimes, and becomes an unlikely hero. Characters appear and reappear in each story, changing in significance depending on who is seeing them.

The overarching mystery of the films is intriguing, if not original. Much of the joy from watching them comes from witnessing the characters move the pieces into place. As I watched 1983, I gasped out loud at certain parts. Waiting between the movies was legitimately frustrating, as I wanted to know what would happen almost more than I could stand, even though I knew it couldn’t be good. However, 1980 felt a bit disconnected from the other two. The timeline, fractured by the style of the movie, made some parts of all three hard to follow, but 1980 was all over the place. Ultimately, the story carried beyond the confusion.

The direction is amazing. All three parts are incredibly vivid, with powerful, dreamlike scenes haunting me well after the credits. All three employ dreamlike touches, with slow motion, flashbacks, time skips, and nontraditional camera angles. The movies looked like 1970s horror movies, and this gave the whole proceedings an eerie undertone. 1974, in particular, is gorgeous, and that beauty is used in such wonderfully unsettling ways. 1980 is a bit more straightforward, to mirror Peter’s traditional views. 1983, though, loses a bit of its power by having two main characters, diluting the style choices to very different men.

The entire cast is incredible. The standout is Andrew Garfield, who carries 1974 with ease, giving Eddie the believability of a cocky young investigative reporter and runs the gamut of emotions, making his ending both shocking and inevitable. Paddy Considine carries the conflicted nature of 1980’s Peter Hunter like a second skin-does actor carry sorrow better? Mark Addy is a pleasant addition to 1983, but isn’t around enough to make a big impact. David Morrisey’s Maurice Jobson has the strength to hold his character’s honor while doing terrible things, and still make you pity him. There were few female characters, but Rebecca Hall, as the mother of one of the lost girls in 1974, makes a strong impression. Secondary characters, including Sean Bean, Sean Harris, Richard Sheehan, and Daniel Mays, are wonderful. No one fits a false note.

If you like thrillers, horror movies, or mysteries, you aren’t going to do any better than the Red Riding Trilogy.

Written by: Taylor Rhodes, June 6th 2010

Women Without Men

admin — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Shirin Neshat

Indiepix

The story of director Shirin Neshat is almost as compelling as her first feature. Born in religiously conservative Qazvin, Iran, Neshat has been using visual art to explore gender relations under Islam for nearly two decades, traveling back and forth between the States and Iran to enrich her perspective. But because her work has been so politically outspoken, Neshat has been exiled from her native country since 1996.

A visionary as courageous as she is condemned, Neshat is perhaps the most likely candidate to direct Women Without Men, an adaptation of Shahrnush Parsipur's sweeping novel. The scope of Parsipur's story is both epic and intimate, juxtaposing the Western imperialist invasion of Tehran with the intertwining lives of four Iranian women during the tumultuous summer of 1953. To call such a project ambitious would be an understatement.

The connection between this political upheaval and the four characters in question is unmistakable; just as the people of Tehran have decided to come together and fight to maintain democracy, these four women have reached an impasse in their own lives. Nearing thirty and still unwedded, Munis (Shabnam Toloui) seeks to escape the oppressive hand of her older brother; Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), a rape victim, must flee to avoid condemnation; long-time prostitute Zarin (Orsolya Tóth) is finally ready to leave the life behind; and middle-aged Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad) has grown weary of her stifling, loveless marriage. The greater struggle of the revolution provides a moving counterpoint to the individual struggles of these characters to achieve solace.

Both the book and the film use elements of magic realism to tell their story. In order to be free of her brother and reinvent herself as a revolutionary, Munis either fakes her own suicide or actually commits suicide and comes back to life; it's unclear which. While roaming the woods, Faezeh sees a surreal reenactment of her rape. Though the device isn't consistent, it still manages to be effective when used.

It helps that the film is beautifully shot, with careful compositions and a palpable tone and style. Neshat uses a metallic palette throughout, giving the film an appropriately imprisoning feel. The film is also remarkable for its avoidance of graphic imagery, with the exception of a disturbing scene in which Zarin scrubs herself raw in a public bath, but this is more to emphasize her diseased, nearly skeletal body, and needless to say, this lone image has a lingering impact.

In fact, it is Zarin's story that ends up being the most effective, while some of the others seem a bit heavy-handed at times. Fakhri's husband chides, "A woman hitting menopause shouldn't be flirting anymore," while Munis' brother declares, "A woman's body is like a flower. Once it blossoms, it quickly withers away." It's not that these sentiments aren't believable, but pairing them with a sheer lack of sympathetic male characters makes it all seem intentionally exaggerated.

From the film's final disclaimer, it seems that Neshat's primary objective was to focus on the revolution, but the way Women Without Men unfolds makes the political aspect of the story more of a backdrop than a feature. It is quite poignant, however, to realize that, in the end, our four main characters have been afforded a rebirth of some kind, even if it's through death, while the Iranian people have failed to achieve the one for which they've so bravely fought.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, June 5th 2010