I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat, or a prostitute.

— Rebecca West, 1913

(Photo by E.O. Hoppé, 1923)

"What? Women are supposed to stick together no matter what? Come on. I stopped believing that when I threw away my 'You've come a long way, baby' keychain."

– Christine Cagney, Cagney & Lacey

Of course some episodes of Buffy are lackluster. "Beer Bad," "Spiral," and much of season seven are equal parts ridiculous and dull. But few episodes, in my opinion, are as embarrassingly, insultingly awful as "Him." If not for its last nine or so minutes, I would easily call it the worst episode of Buffy ever.

First, the writers are ripping themselves off. "Him" is an obvious retread of season two's delightful "Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered" in which Xander accidentally casts a spell on himself that causes all the women in Sunnydale to love him...to DEATH. (I know that sentence sounds like a crib from a Lifetime promo, but I couldn't resist.) Why does "Him" fail where "Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered" succeeds? Because the latter is not an exercise in the complete humiliation of every female character on a supposedly feminist show.

In "Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered" it becomes clear pretty fast that the females are acting strangely due to Xander's botched spell. Xander acts quickly to reverse its effects, and he doesn't take advantage of any of the girls who throw themselves at him. Giles chastises him for his foolish use of magic, and the women's escalating emotions for Xander threaten his well-being. As for the effects of the spell on the women, it causes them to be sexually assertive toward Xander, but none of their initial come-ons make me feel embarrassed for them. And the later mob scenes are so over-the-top that I know they would never happen without the spell.

In contrast, when watching "Him" I wasn't certain a spell caused Dawn's behavior until Buffy starts to hit on RJ, which doesn't happen until halfway into the episode. Sure, Dawn pushing that guy down a flight of stairs is creepy, but I wouldn't put it past her even when she's spell-free. I experience physical discomfort watching Dawn's attempts to win RJ, humiliating herself in front of him and his friends. The petty backstabbing and catfights between girls competing for him is nauseating, but none of it is behavior I haven't seen before on other shows and in movies as representative of how women might actually behave. Despite the girls' degradation, RJ doesn't suffer any ill effects from wearing the enchanted jacket. Because he doesn't seem to know about the enchantment, he doesn't have to learn a lesson about exploiting young women. Both Buffy and Principal Wood give him small lectures but to little effect, and having his jacket taken away by Spike and Xander hardly seems like much of a punishment.

Another important distinction between the two episodes is that "Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered" provides character and story development for two main characters. Xander gets to show he's really a good guy when he refuses Buffy, and he and Cordelia become an official item when Cordy calls her friends out on being sheep and decides that she doesn't care what they think about who she dates. "Him" doesn't further story or reveal anything new about any of the main characters, though it does prove that Dawn really would win Miss Teen Angst Sunnydale.

I wouldn't give this episode a second viewing if it weren't for the nine minutes following Willow and Anya falling under RJ's spell. I love the shot of Willow and Anya reacting to the love spell because of Alyson Hannigan's wistful expression that morphs into confusion tinged with disgust at lusting after a guy. Much of the following dialogue is very quotable and excellently performed by Hannigan, Emma Caulfield, and Sarah Michelle Gellar.

Buffy: "Willow, you're a gay woman."
Willow: (So?)
Buffy: "And he isn't."
Willow: "This isn't about his physical presence. It's about his heart."
Anya: "His physical presence has a penis!"
Willow: "I can work around it!"
...
Anya: "Well, you're gonna have to do better than that—I'd kill for him."
Willow: (scoffs) "You'd kill for a chocolate bar."
Buffy: "No. Yes! Kill for him. I'm the slayer. Slayer means kill. Oh, I'll kill the principal."
Anya: "Ooh, that is hard to top."
Willow: "Yeah, well, I have skills. I can prove my love with magic."
Anya: "Yeah, right. What're you gonna do? Use magic to make him into a girl?"
(Willow's eyes widen with realization and delight.)
Anya: "Damn!"

The wonderful comedic acting continues with the montage and split-screen of the women doing their things to win RJ's heart, with the exception of Dawn who has to spoil the fun by wallowing on the railroad tracks. Willow and Xander have a fun exchange after he stops Willow's spell ("Will, honey, RJ's a guy." "I know. 'S why I'm doing my spell, 'cause, you know, he doesn't have to be."), which leads to some excellent physical comedy by SMG and James Marsters as Spike tries to take the rocket launcher away from Buffy. I also enjoy Dawn's line about Buffy having "sex that's rough," and Spike and Xander wrestling RJ's jacket off of him and running away. The writers hadn't managed to churn out that amount of continuous comedy for a while, and they don't for the rest of the season. (This moment comes earlier in the episode, but I also like Willow commiserating with Xander that "she is right there with him" feeling disturbed at finding Dawn attractive. It's one of the show's more subtle "Willow is gay" moments.)

This episode includes a lot of callbacks to previous episodes. Dawn wears Buffy's cheerleading outfit from "Witch," Buffy tries to use the rocket launcher from "Innocence," and Xander references the events of the above-mentioned ripped-off episode "Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered."

I really like the music in this episode. UPN seems to have made Buffy's music supervisor use songs that people might have actually heard of instead of the California alterna-rock of the first five seasons. I applaud the show for trying to use music from lesser-known, local bands, but sometimes they tended to be indistinguishable from each other. "Him" features a song by The Shins, a song by Coldplay, and a couple from The Breeders, who are playing at the Bronze. The Breeders are one of my favorite bands and I was happy to see them on the show, but their music seems an odd choice for dancing tunes. I also really like the Charlie's Angels-ish music that plays over the split-screen montage. Kudos to Robert Duncan if he composed that score.

Despite this episode's solid comedy and trendy indie music soundtrack, I feel bothered and bewildered (but not bewitched) that the writers thought this story had a place on Buffy. I do not tune in to a show about a young woman with super powers who kills vampires to watch women bicker pettily about a boy and then be saved by two men.

The Ames Brothers - "The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane" (1954)

I don't usually write about music on this blog because, frankly, I suck at it, but I heard a song recently that's got my inner feminist itchin' to rant.

The song, called "The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane," was written in the 1950s and most famously performed by The Ames Brothers and Archie Bleyer. Aurally, I like the song very much because of its tight vocal harmonies and bouncy boom bada booms, which give it a wonderfully nostalgic sound. However, the lyrics prove problematic for me despite the tune being something of a novelty song.

The lyrics suggest the sexual promiscuity of the "naughty lady" as, "She throws those 'come hither' glances at every Tom, Dick and Joe," and, "When offered some liquid refreshment, the lady never, never says, 'No.'" But despite these bad behaviors, the song assures the listener that, "She just needs someone to change her and she'll be nice as can be." Obviously, the lyrics imply that this "naughty lady" is a grown woman who flirts and drinks and sleeps around, but the last line of the song reveals her to be a nine-day-old infant.

Ha ha, right? It's cute. But I don't think that a song like this one would ever be written about a male child, and even if one were, I think it would be very different. So I can't help but think of this song as evidence of how early society starts policing female sexuality.

There's also a bit of eroticization of children that disturbs me. Four men calling a baby "delectable"? Yeesh.

I'll start by admitting that Death's Daughter isn't something that I would usually read. I have and do read science fiction/fantasy novels but the stories, written by authors such as Ursula Le Guin, Marge Piercy, and Octavia Butler, have had a pretty blatant second-wave feminist social commentary element to them. In fact, I would say that the feminism part supersedes the fantasy part of these novels.

In contrast, Amber Benson's first novel written all by her lonesome, rather than with sometime writing partner Christopher Golden, is very much a novel based in mythology with the fantasy elements at the forefront. Benson has called it a combination of fantasy and chicklit, and that description is fairly apt. Death's Daughter is intended as a fluffy, quick, entertaining read, and it does work on that level to an extent. However, the novel lacks what most engages me in the fluffy novels I usually read: an appealing main character.

Even though Calliope is supposedly in her twenties, her narrative voice sounds more like that of a teenager, which causes the book to read like a young adult novel with too much sex and too much violence. Callie is shallow, whiny, and self-involved, and Benson's choice to give a fashionista slant to her character disappoints because it's unoriginal. The literary world has no need of yet another Carrie Bradshaw or Rebecca Bloomwood, and perhaps because in real life Benson seems to have little concern for designers and labels, all of the name dropping of high-fashion heavyweights felt very artificial. I gritted my teeth and plowed through the first part of the book because I had to believe that Benson was writing Callie as so superficial and selfish so that she could be changed by the experiences that lay ahead. While Callie did show some evidence of character development, she never did transform into someone I liked. However, Benson does beat the crap out of her for 300 or so pages, so that's something to consider.

Eventually I started tuning out Calliope, but I didn't get bored. The story clips along at a good pace, and I enjoyed Benson's take on how Hell works and on Hindu mythology, with a little bit of Greek and Norse thrown in. I liked that she explored how immortality works in regards to the not getting killed. Something I've always been curious about: how do immortal people age? But Benson's version of Kali differs quite a bit from my imagining. I envision her as more wrathful rather than just peevish. I also really liked Runt and Clio, who seems much more mature than her supposedly older sister. Plus, Clio is the "Willow character," and I always have a soft spot for smart, nerdy girls, especially if they wear Buddy Holly glasses.

The chicklit portion of the novel is fairly light. The romance subplot does not conclude as is expected of the genre, and I was pleased that the story's main trajectory was not about Callie getting the guy. Instead, the plot focuses principally on Callie's hero's journey, completing her tasks to become Death and rescuing her father. While Callie certainly becomes more confident as the book progresses, I was disappointed that she never found complete autonomy. I wish that she could have completed one of her tasks by herself.

The male characters, at least the supernatural ones, seem to fall into two categories: diabolical or sacrificial. Vritra, the Devil, Marcel, and Indra all scheme and manipulate women, while Daniel and Jarvis sacrifice themselves to assure that Callie completes her journey. Callie's father is probably the only exception to this dichotomy, but he appears very little in the novel. The human men are decidedly less assertive and heroic with Callie's blind date failing to catch her eye physically speaking and her vegan co-worker fainting after seeing Jarvis. The women in the novel, with perhaps the exception of Clio, are all ball-busters of a sort but that does not necessarily translate to their seeming empowered. Though none come across as helpless, most become victims of men's manipulation.

Benson narrates the novel in a very conversational tone that's a little too familiar for my taste. There were several times that Benson repeated herself, conveying the same information through both Callie's thoughts and subsequent dialogue. For example:

How the hell am I supposed to know what I'm doing? I thought to myself. It's not like there's a book on the subject.

"Hey, you don't have to yell at me. It's not like anyone gave me an instruction manual—"

Just the dialogue would have sufficed. I also disliked Benson's use of the word "bitch" but more on a feminist level. Callie chastises Clio for referring to the Gopi as "bitches" but Callie herself uses the word several times throughout the novel. The sisters use the word differently – Clio refers to women being a man's "bitches," and Callie uses it as a derogatory term for a disagreeable woman – but I personally fail to see the word as anything but oppressive in any context. I vote that women leave "bitch" unclaimed.

But I do not wish to seem too negative. Death's Daughter is Benson's first solo novel, and I'm sure that she will grow as a novelist just as she has grown as a screenwriter. This novel is supposedly the first of a trilogy, and at this point I would be willing to read a sequel. The prose may not be perfect, but Death's Daughter is very readable and, like I said, I enjoyed Benson's take on mythology. My favorite bit: "...you, and the other Evangelical Christian sinners, would spend your days of punishment sewing sequins on all the gaffs for the Devil's favorite cabaret, The Gay Minority Demons' Drag Show."

Hmmm...but should I be overly sensitive and take that sentence to imply that gay people are demons? Eh, I'll give Benson a pass on that one because I know what an awesome ally she is to the queer community. She has said that she doesn't have any gay characters in this series yet, and of the characters in this novel I would guess that Clio has the most queer potential. I mean, short hair, dorky glasses, owns a white tank top, likes animals? Stereotypes, yes, but sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason. That list describes at least six lesbians that I know. OK, so Clio seems to have a thing for Indra in this book, but I would attribute that to whatever mojo he seems to work on the ladies. Or it would be fine if she were bisexual as long as she didn't turn evil or become an assassin. There's been enough of that already.

Based on the novel by Philippa Gregory, The Other Boleyn Girl attempts to explore the relationships between Henry VIII and two sisters: Anne Boleyn, whom he married, and her sister Mary, with whom Henry had an affair while he was married to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. As a historical drama, the film doesn't paint a very detailed portrait of the creation of The Church of England and Anne Boleyn's fall into disgrace, but the film also fails as a character study, which I believe is its true purpose. In fact, the film feels like half of it's one and half is the other. However, director Justin Chadwick and screenplay writer Peter Morgan do manage to convey the slippery, and potentially deadly, slope of political maneuvering during this time period. Nearly everyone in this film becomes the victim of manipulation for the purpose of political gain, underscoring in particular women's complete lack of autonomy in Tudor England.

Given the name of the film, I expected The Other Boleyn Girl to be more about the other Boleyn girl. Sure, Mary plays a part in the proceedings, but as she did in life Anne overshadows her. Mary is given one characterization very early in the film, and she never changes. Or maybe she does. I'm not sure. I feel like Mary's emotions, reactions, and rationale become lost at several points during the film. Mary unflaggingly comes to her sister's aide, speaking to the King on her behalf even though Anne used her compulsory bedrest during her pregnancy with Henry's child as an opportunity to seduce him. The filmmakers never explore Mary's emotions at confronting her former lover who abandoned her to plead for clemency for her sister who betrayed her. Mary's situation is absolutely portrayed as pitiable, but the abuse she suffers seems small in comparison to what happens to her sister. Though Anne is certainly the anti-hero of this story, Chadwick colors her as a young woman who perishes at her own hand in a way, overcome by the cruelties of a world she fought to gain entry to but ultimately was not ready for or able to manage.

While Henry VIII is certainly the most prominent historical figure in the film, I feel like he is the least important character. I think the center of the film, at least in a character-study context, is the relationship between Mary and Anne and more broadly their family. In this version of the Boleyn sisters' story, Henry the person is less important than Henry the King. Mary and Anne come to their respective fates because someone finds the idea of power titillating and tries to cultivate a relationship with the king to achieve it. Had I written and directed this material I think I would have chosen to greatly reduce Henry's part and give him no or very few lines. I would have filmed him from behind most of the time, always when he was speaking, and probably only shown his face in the scene in which Anne argues for her life in front of the jury. Pushing Henry to the background in this way I think would allow the true meat of the story to come to the foreground.

The acting failed to impress me. Granted, I think that Mary is depressingly underdeveloped, but Scarlett Johansson barely manages to leave an impression. As Henry, Eric Bana is decent but his performance never captivated me and I never connected with his character. Of the three leads, Natalie Portman's performance is the only one the audience can really grab onto, and she does a fair job presenting Anne as complex and ultimately sympathetic, though her English accent is by far the weakest of the bunch. But I have to say that I thought she did improve in comparison to V for Vendetta. I also liked Kristin Scott Thomas as the Boleyns' mother, but her character almost felt like an anachronism, a voice of modern feminism inserted into the story to connect with contemporary audiences.

Though The Other Boleyn Girl does not succeed completely, the production is visually splendid. I like the period costumes in particular, but I think those inverted visors the women wear on their heads look ridiculous. Even though it's a little light on historical details, the film also acts as an interesting prequel of sorts to Elizabeth and Elizabeth: The Golden Age.

And just for fun, here's some information about Henry's wives:

1. Catherine of Aragon: daughter of Queen Isabella I of Spain, mother of Queen Mary I; Henry VII originally arranged a betrothal between her and Henry VIII's older brother Arthur, who passed away from illness, to form an alliance with Spain; as a devout Catholic, refused to acknowledge Henry's subsequent marriage to Anne Boleyn until her death, even though doing so would have meant better quarters and permission to see her daughter; marriage annulled by Henry for failure to produce a male heir.
2. Anne Boleyn: mother of Queen Elizabeth I; refused to become Henry's mistress and his infatuation with her led to Henry's eventual break from the Catholic Church and creation of The Church of England; after failing to produce a male heir and a turbulent marriage, Henry declared that their union had been a product of witchcraft; beheaded on charges of adultery, incest, and high treason.
3. Jane Seymour: mother of King Edward VI; mistress to Henry during his marriage to Anne; Henry considered her his "true" wife because she produced his only male heir and he was buried next to her; died from an infection after giving birth to her son.
4. Anne of Cleves: sister of the Duke of Cleves of Germany; was suggested to Henry as a possible wife because of her brother's Protestant beliefs, thus making him a potential ally should a Roman Catholic attack against England occur; found completely unattractive by Henry upon her arrival in England; marriage annulled by Henry and was given property.
   
5. Catherine Howard: had an extra-marital affair with Henry's courtier and a pre-marital affair with another man, who maliciously revealed their indiscretions to a member of Henry's court investigating her relationship with the courtier; beheaded on charges of adultery.
   
6. Catherine Parr: was widowed twice before marrying Henry, making her quite wealthy; though vocally disagreeing with Henry about religion, managed to reconcile him with his daughters, which led to them being restored to the line of succession; survived Henry and married a former lover.
   

The men look bad. The women look bad. Only Jane Powell escapes this movie unscathed.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is hardly an evolved movie, but my feminist sensibilities weren't nearly as offended as I thought they would be. Even though I don't like them, I can't really fault Stanley Donen for the film's representations of gender and gender roles reflecting the dominate social constructions of the 1950s. The enforcement of gender roles is definitely integral to the plot, but this film is largely an exploration of class.

The film begins in Oregon in 1850 with Adam Pontipee arriving in town to sell his beef, buy some supplies, and find himself a wife. Ignoring warnings that all of the women in town are spoken for due to the high ratio of men to women in the West, Adam takes a stroll around town and runs into Milly, the cook for the local bar. Adam sees a practical, pretty woman who can cook and clean, but Milly falls in love with Adam at first sight. Milly's idealized notions of wedded bliss are immediately confronted with reality when she arrives at her new husband's farm to be greeted by his six brothers, whose manners and hygiene are somewhat different from the townsfolk's to which she is accustomed. Milly quickly begins to teach her new brothers-in-law how to "act like gentlemen" so that they can court some wives of their own.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers lends itself well to a Freudian interpretation. The town and the "deep woods," where the Pontipee brothers live, act as opposing forces, representing the superego and the id. Having grown up in the deep woods, the Pontipees lack a developed ego, due to little exposure to the superego (the town). Moving from town to the deep woods, Milly acts as an agent of the superego and exposes the Pontipees to the cultural structures that have regulated her behavior.

As in much of American storytelling, women appear here as the socializing force, with Milly and "the brides" possessing a little more "super" in their egos. All of the men, even the townsfolk, are portrayed as ids barely held in check by the ego, as the brawl at the barn raising demonstrates. Some men simply suppress the id better than others.

The scene I find most interesting, and embarrassing, is the one in which the women result to catfights after insinuating that some amongst them had been mooning over the brothers. The fights come after they had been stranded in the deep woods for two months, two months during which the girls only had contact with the id (the deep woods) and no connection with the superego (the town). Even though they are women possessing better-developed egos, prolonged exposure to the id affects their behavior, causing them to behave much like the brothers at the beginning of the film.

As musicals go, Seven Brides is fairly entertaining. The songs are catchy enough, but quickly forgotten once the credits roll. Michael Kidd's choreography is the highlight and, arguably, the focus of the film, given that all of the actors, with the exception of only a few, were hired for their dancing abilities. Kidd creates unique musical numbers out of mundane frontier tasks, such as chopping wood and, most famously, barn raising. (Note: I don't think I'd really understood what a barn raising was until I saw this movie. I thought it was just a dance, a metaphorical "raising" of the barn.)

Jane Powell deservedly receives top billing for her portrayal of Milly, which grounds the film. A young, pre-West Side Story Russ Tamblyn also stands out as Gideon. I was happy to see Tommy Rall, though disappointed that his marvelous hoofing skills weren't able to be showcased in this film. I was surprised to learn young Julie Newmar, the original Catwoman, played the unfortunately named Dorcas. I have seen Howard Keel twice now as a leading man — first in Kiss Me, Kate — and I have mixed feelings about his ability in this arena. Milly spends more time with the brothers than with Adam, so Keel is missing during large chunks of the film and frankly I don't really miss him. Keel is a fairly generous actor and freely allows other actors to make the most of their screen time, which sometimes results in his failing to make more of an impression. With the case of both Kiss Me, Kate and Seven Brides, I'm left remembering more of the secondary characters than Keel's.

Ultimately, I have mixed feelings about Seven Brides. I'm too much a feminist to enjoy the story too much, but I was fairly surprised that the women have as much agency as they do in this film. If the film had concluded with the women explaining to their fathers that they choose to marry the Pontipees instead of a mass shotgun wedding I would have been more mollified. However, as a piece of entertainment, Seven Brides, with the help of Michael Kidd's unique choreography, does satisfy.

Usually I do try to read books before I watch their movie counterparts, but I was unaware of Eugenides’ novel when I saw Sofia Coppola’s film adaptation. Now that I’ve read the novel I can attest to Coppola’s excellent interpretation. As an appreciator of literature, I can recognize the superior quality of the novel, but as a feminist I like the film more. I understand the allegorical aspect of the material, but the story — the novel in particular — paints these girls as victims of the male gaze.

This gaze ultimately seems to destroy the girls. To protect her children from the ugly things in life, Mrs. Lisbon adopts the male gaze, criticizing her daughters’ dress and sheltering them from interacting too much with young men. When Lux comes home late from the prom and Mrs. Lisbon realizes that Lux had allowed herself to become a victim of Trip’s gaze, she keeps them in their house, away from the corruptive influence of males. In their one night at prom, the Lisbon sisters finally had the opportunity to stop being idols and just be young women and they were rejected (Trip left Lux on the football field and Bonnie’s date never called her). As much as the boys pretend to want to know the truth, I think that they prefer their romantic visions of the Lisbons and would not have wanted further contact to ruin their fanciful images. Anyway, as well as being rejected as real people, Mrs. Lisbon prevents them from reaching out to new people, which they might have done after their prom date, by taking them out of school. Perhaps knowing that they could never live up to anyone’s expectations caused them to kill themselves. That bit at the end about “[it] only [mattered] we had loved them” is a little disturbing considering that their “love” might have killed the girls.

Eugenides makes an interesting statement about memory, the importance of memory, and how people rationalize the differences in memory. He also draws an interesting connection between the decay of a suburb and the dwindling life forces of these five young women.

I just watched this film for the second time recently and I was reminded of how much I liked it. The film is beautiful, the acting is excellent and the story is very interesting. I do admit that the storytelling is very formulaic in a sense — estranged father and daughter grow closer, the less confident and bratty daughter learns strength and humility, the bad guy is defeated — but these characters are sympathetic and interesting, thanks to the actors, and the formulaic storytelling is accomplished rather subtly. Maggie and Jones don’t embrace fondly at the end of the movie and it isn’t dwelt on any longer than necessary that one of Maggie’s daughters was the product of a rape.

Regardless of being a little formulaic, the plot does offer an interesting feminist reading. In retaliation of having their identity stolen by white folks, these Indians are interested by stealing and molding the identity of these young women. The women are taken from their families, stripped of their clothes and given baggy men’s clothing to wear. They are being taught to forget all semblance they have of themselves: their lineage, everyday habits, position in society (as indicated by the brujo stuffing dirt in Lilly’s mouth), and even their conception of their gender. The Indians want to see them as things to be sold and want them to think of themselves as things. When they are preparing the women for sale, the captors choose their clothing (or rather underwear) and paint their faces, putting the final touches on the women’s new identity as probably whores to whomever buys them. After the women escape, they immediately wash the make-up from their faces as an initial step in reclaiming their identity.

My only criticism of the film is the length. Even though it is an entertaining 2+-hour film, it does feel a little long. Though I don’t have much of suggestion of how one might shorten it.

Despite Swenson’s claims that his and Angela’s relationship was about “love,” I have to agree with Sherrie that his attraction to Angela had very much to do with his daughter and their estranged relationship. I’ve seen and read stories of pubescent teens developing attractions to older people when one of their parents is absent or distant, trying to replace parental attention with romantic attention. However, this story is the first I’ve read in which the roles have been reversed.

Usually an older character with an absent child forms an unromantic relationship with a surrogate child, but during their unfortunate and unsuccessful sexual encounter Swenson makes an observation that again reverses the usual roles:

Her nipples brush against his face. He takes one in his mouth, from which she gently extricates it with a gesture so instinctive, so sure, that Swenson thinks—God help him—of how Sherrie used to reclaim her breast after Ruby fell asleep nursing.

While Swenson really does seem to care about his wife and child, he seems frustrated with the monotony and little irritations of daily life with the same people. He likes the familiarity that he shares with his wife but interactions have become too complicated for him to handle. His relationship with Angela seems much less difficult — his trip with her to Computer City goes smoothly while his trip with Ruby involves many hassles. In fact, in their trip to Computer City Swenson notes that Ruby dresses and acts as if she is trying to be invisible. Indeed, Swenson notices this tendency in Angela when he first starts becoming aware of her.

Even though I found this novel enjoyable, it did not seem very woman-friendly while I was reading it. The two feminist characters in this novel do not come off very well, and Prose characterizes women who are concerned with sexual harassment as some kind of brainless cult. Really I think that Prose intends to criticize overly fervent women who want to interpret every person with a penis and a Y-chromosome as a misogynist and possible rapist. However, she presents the hyper-feminist “villains” very clearly and does not provide positive portrayals of feminists with more moderated viewpoints. After evidence of Swenson’s affair with Angela is revealed, Sherrie and Magda, the likable female characters, join the side of the feminist antagonists.

I also am toying with the idea that casting the women in this light was intended to create the greatest role reversal of the novel. Most rape cases are structured around proving that the woman “asked” for what happened to her — because women are expected to control their sexuality as well as men’s, they must be proven innocent rather than their attackers be proven guilty. In this sexual harassment “trial,” Swenson’s character is attacked while Angela’s is never examined. With her mercurial swings in behaviour toward Swenson, the reader suspects that Angela did intend to seduce him. And while the reader may not forgive Swenson for cheating on his wife and violating the college’s rule prohibiting sexual relationships between faculty and students, the reader does recognize that the presentation of Swenson’s character at the trial is unfair. Swenson does feel misrepresented at the trial, but he repeats several times that he prefers their inaccurate portrayal of him as an inappropriate pursuer of this young woman rather than the reality of his being a spineless simp who fell for her machinations. Something that most victimized women would find degrading — being portrayed as promiscuous or sexually assertive — is an empowering experience for Swenson.

Anwanyu seems very much a product of the feminism of the 1970s, which, given the novel’s publication date of 1980, she probably is. As this novel’s depiction of the ultimate female or the ultimate feminine, Anwanyu has absolute control over her body — most importantly, probably, control over when she becomes pregnant.

Obviously one of the main concerns of this novel is the relationship between the sexes, explored through the relationship between Anwanyu and Doro. However, neither are defined by just one sex: Doro can possess the body of a woman and bear children and Anwanyu can become a man and conceive children with a woman. Therefore, I think that as well as representing man and woman, Doro and Anwanyu represent masculinity and femininity.

Doro is a rather amoral figure, living for centuries by preying on others, using bodies how, when, and for whatever he chooses. He has gained power by instilling fear in others, killing them if they do not cooperate. Anwanyu, many centuries younger than Doro, has lived relatively peaceably, obtaining her independence by gaining her village’s respect and trust, killing only when she is attacked. While Doro is interested in breeding and even the idea of making a family, he is not the great earth mother that Anwanyu is. From her body she can produce not only children, but medicines to heal and relieve and within her body she can communicate with animals and plants at a cellular level. Anwanyu nurtures where Doro destroys. Through the course of the novel, the masculine and feminine seem to fight each other until the end of the novel when both seem to realize that they exist better when they cooperate and complement each other rather than clash.

Didn’t like this book. At all. I kept telling myself, “It was written in 1973. I’m sure it was a revolutionary portrayal of woman as a sexual being. Blah blah blah trying-to-make-allowances-cakes.” But I still didn’t like it. It wasn’t, you know, well-written.

I admit that I’m a bit of a prude and all of Isadora’s talk of douching herself with wine and vinegar and trying to examine her genitalia in the mirror as an adolescent isn’t my idea of captivating reading. But even if Jong’s exploring a female’s interest in sex was groundbreaking it doesn’t seem to have presented a particularly female point of view of sex. In fact, Isadora’s experiences and fantasies seem to fit quite well into the standard repertoire of male sexual fantasies. I mean, twice the woman is practically—well, pretty much raped and Jong doesn’t give the reader any insight into her reaction. Rather, she describes how the men responded.

The entire novel seems to be a half-assed self-help exercise of sorts. I mean, it actually says, “People don’t complete us. We complete ourselves.” Excuse me while I vomit. If Isadora is supposed to be the typical feminist of the early ’70s, I’m glad that I was -10 at that point. She contradicts herself and suggests all “so-called feminists” really just want to be married and pregnant. She wasn’t a sympathetic character to begin with and instead of making her sympathetic Jong chooses to detail three of Isadora’s previous relationships. These men were interesting when mentioned briefly; when their entire relationship is explained in excruciating detail, only her crazy ex-husband manages to remain interesting. But sadly I found his character more interesting than Isadora. Isadora’s account of her and Bennett’s bad years in Germany did garner some sympathy for her though. Too bad there was more book after that.

Oh, and could Jong have made Adrian any less appealing? If Jong was going for some kind of declaration about women as sexual creatures being okay, why did she make Isadora look absolutely insane for instantly being attracted to a man who grabs her ass three seconds after meeting her?

In this early example of the Japanese essay, Shonagon lists characteristics, habits, etc. that she finds hateful. Most of these annoyances are articulated in a sentence, maybe two, thus the essay tends to have a bit of an abrupt feeling as Shonagon jumps from one annoyance to the next. The brief paragraphs are tied together with a common theme, but Shonagon neglected, indeed didn’t feel the need, to create a flow to the piece. This list feels very much like a list.

According to the nice little introduction to Shonagon and this work provided in my mighty book of essays, “Hateful Things” is one of many lists that Shonagon made in her journal. The editor praises Shonagon in his introduction as “an unapologetic maverick—an outspoken, truly independent woman.” While I’m not inclined to disagree, one must remain aware that these pieces were written in a personal journal, presumably not intended for public consumption. Therefore, Shonagon might have felt more comfortable discussing her views on the etiquette of her lovers than she would in a more public arena.

“Hateful Things” does provide a portrait of a fiercely opinionated individual, unafraid of revealing her quirks and her snobberies. She also demonstrates something of an obsession with the pretenses of societal expectations. It would be nice if the earliest female writer included in this collection ruminated on, I don’t know, deeply philosophical things, like the plight of women or hermit crabs in her respective society, but I suppose I shouldn’t expect every woman to be a premodern example of a feminist.

I’ve always been fascinated with hijab, particularly hijab in the United States. To most Americans, who are mostly Christian, the hijab seems foreign and strange. Most Christians don’t seem to remember that one of the significant figures of their religion is almost always pictured in hijab: the Virgin Mary. Even though Christian women are not expected to wear hijab to preserve their modesty as Muslim women are, there must be some remnant of that mentality in Christianity. Because Mary—the Christian epitome of virtue, chastity and modesty—remains depicted with her hair covered, Christians must still understand the philosophy of hijab.

This story addresses a very interesting question: can a feminist wear hijab? Well, obviously, one can, but does doing so betray some crucial tenet of feminism? Many of the American Muslim women that I have known tend to redefine the significance of hijab. Instead of feeling burdened by their veil, these women find it liberating. Veiled, they do not have to worry about being judged for not wearing the hippest clothing or men ogling them. I tend to choose clothes for similar reasons. So am I part of the problem, as some feminists would say, for not embracing my sexuality and submitting to the cultural expectation that women are expected to control men’s desires by not wearing shirts that look like handkerchiefs? I realize that my usual khakis and long-sleeved shirt is quite a bit more liberated-looking than hijab, but if these women find hijab liberating and choose to wear it, what’s wrong with that? Must all women who cannot forsake their religious tenets be excluded from feminism?

I liked this short story. Setting it during the Gulf War and capitalizing on the tension between American culture and Arabs was very effective. Though I’m not sure I quite understand the ending within the context of the rest of the story.

This novel is the third that I’ve read by Atwood. I enjoyed it more than The Edible Woman but not as much as A Handmaid’s Tale.

Like Marion in The Edible Woman, Rennie feels disconnected from her body. Rather than feeling consumed like Marion, Rennie feels betrayed by and unable to control her body. One of the motifs that Atwood uses throughout the novel is Rennie’s attraction to the surface and her inability and unwillingness to probe more deeply. With a breast cancer diagnosis, she becomes forced to confront the treachery of her insides as well as other people’s. Her trip to St. Antoine, where no one seems to be what they appear, accentuates this need.

Another motif Atwood uses involves hands. Each of Rennie’s relationships is characterized by a different image. There is a repeated image of Jake trapping Rennie’s hands in his own, of his domination over her during sex. Paul often grips Rennie by her elbow, which isn’t quite as domineering but still suggests that Paul has control over her. With Daniel, Rennie speaks of awkward and stolen holding of hands—a more egalitarian but not a comfortable image. Finally, there are Lora’s hands, which Rennie finds disgusting and comments that she would never hold those hands, stained with nicotine and reddened at the cuticles from nervous biting. Therefore, one of the final images of Rennie

holding Lora’s left hand, between both of her own, perfectly still, nothing is moving, and she knows she is pulling on the hand, as hard as she can, there’s an invisible hole in the air, Lora is on the other side of it and she has to pull her through, she’s gritting her teeth with the effort, she can hear herself, a moaning, it must be her own voice, this is a gift, this is the hardest thing she’s ever done

is a very powerful one.

At one point, Paul tells Rennie that he finds American women tedious to talk to because they are spouting “women’s lib” and worrying about wearing bras when he has seen many parts of the world in which people can’t eat. And, indeed, ideologies like feminism seem to emerge in communities in which everyone’s basic needs are met. So what is Atwood’s point exactly? Her prose is quite feminist, therefore I can’t imagine her dismissing feminism as frivolous. But at the end of the novel, I don’t see that it has been deemed beneficial in an impoverished place like St. Antoine or Ste. Agathe. Or even redeemed from Paul’s cut down.

The ending also confused me. Did Rennie escape? The sections in which she describes her release were written without quotation marks, which seemed to characterize the flashback sections. So I’m not sure.

Perhaps I’ve been thinking too much about the ocean in my womb, but the relationship between Mabel and Jack in this story reminded me of Wiccan concepts of the god and goddess. Within the story Mabel is associated quite strongly with death. She thinks of “this life she followed here in the world [being] far less real than the world of death she inherited from her mother,” which might have led to her suicide attempt. And, to be a little frivolous, she kills the conversation at the beginning of the story with her refusal to answer certain questions. Jack, as a doctor, is associated with life and he rescues Mabel from her suicide attempt. In this way, they are complementary (like the god and goddess).

But Mabel, though more strongly associated with death, can also create life—at least in Jack. When Jack sees Mabel walking toward the pond, “His mind suddenly bec[omes] alive.” When Mabel regains consciousness from her suicide attempt, Jack feels “as if she had the life of his body in her hands” and he feels “his heart hurting him in a pain that was also life to him” when he holds her sobbing body. Often in feminist Wicca, the goddess is associated with both life and death—it’s a menstruation thing. Indeed, Mabel’s submersion in the pond and its earth-smelling water connects her further to this Wiccan concept of the goddess, which celebrates the life and decay of the earth. The decay—the stench of the water—characteristically disgusts Jack, as a feminist witch would say. According to feminist Wiccan thought, men have defined the messier parts of womanhood (menstruation, childbirth) as….well, messy. And wrong. Here comes the sappy, feminist part….perhaps by submerging herself in the earthy water, Mabel was attempting to embrace symbolically the ickier parts of her femininity, but Jack pulls her back into the world of male-defined femininity.

As in The Rainbow, Lawrence emphasizes that humans’ aloneness becomes resolved through a connection between a man and a woman. Mabel and Jack achieve this connection and enter another spiritual plane of sorts. But at the end of the story, they have returned from this alternate plane and Mabel doubts the fortitude of that connection. There is also an idea of connection in this life/death stuff. Jack describes a “pain that was also life to him,” which Mabel created, blending a more deathly concept (pain) with life.