I may even save you £0.01, the cost of a Bret Easton Ellis paperback on Amazon UK.
Because the subtitle of this post is: In Which Bret Easton Ellis is an asshole.
I'm a little late with this. Last week, MovieLine published an interview with noted prick Bret Easton Ellis, and dude decided to bring up the male gaze. Since I had recently written about the male gaze, I decided to give it a once-over. After all, a current writing on the male gaze is a perfect follow-up to my previous post.
Dear reader, you’re smart. Obviously. We’ll take that as a given. And your Natalie? Well, she can be a smart cookie herself. For example, I’m smart enough to know that as a writer, it would not be in my best interest to speak ill of a fellow scribe. After all, what if on some future day I sit down in front of said author’s agent, or editor, or his assistant editor's best friend, and show my book? They may be interested in buying it, sure, but would they really trust the girl who took to her little blog and wrote terrible things about one of their other clients? Probably not. That's business. That's the way it's done.
But, with this dude? With Bret Easton Ellis, his pompous name causing my fingers to curl away from the keyboard, his dreadful writing and blatant ignorance dancing across my computer monitor? I’ll take the risk. I need to be represented, but I doubt anyone who thinks this guy is a walking moral standard would be someone I’d want to work with anyway.
Or maybe it’s not even a risk. Because this dude has done me a favor. I won't have to ever read or buy his books. And as Shakesville pointed out, his misogyny isn’t original, unique or even note worthy. It’s fairly dull, even. Yawn worthy.
With all that in mind, today is a beautiful day. Because, really, I needn't say anything at all. Thanks to the bounty of the Internet, giving witty expressions of rage and pity, my commentary can focus on the male gaze, while the charming voices of the Internet point out exactly why Bret Easton Ellis, noted bonehead, missed the mark so completely.
But first, some background.
Via MovieLine, a brief snippet from the interview:
So, remember a few weeks ago when I was talking about the male gaze?
I thought I was brief in my discussion of the male gaze. I assumed that those who read my blog are smart enough to grasp the gist of the concept from my brief explanation, and if I was too brief, too sparse in my conveying the level in which the world assumes the male gaze, one Google search of "Feminism Male Gaze" or perhaps "Feminist Theory Male Gaze" or even "Advertising Male Gaze" could clear up any thing I missed. (Clearly Bret Easton Ellis, noted asshat extraordinaire, never Googled these terms.)
Besides, women who read this probably didn't need me telling them. We're under male scrutiny, all day, every day in some way, shape or form. There's always going to be some dude commenting or looking or reacting or judging the way we: Talk, look, write, act, drink, eat, interact, react, dress, etc.
And before you tell me that this is human nature and that women judge each other all the time, and it's part of life yada yada ya – the massive difference here is that the male gaze is one of possession and judgment, rather than pity or pettiness or jealousy or boredom and judgment. It’s the possessive that makes the male gaze.
It means that your body, clothes, choices, speech, interactions, are not your own to decide until a male voice or aspect gives it approval.
And the negative consequences of this? If you are not approved, if you are at fault in some way, if you fail to meet whatever standard you're being held up against? You're less than human. You are free-game to be abused, raped, murdered, used, and disposed of. You are not real.
Those consequences a bit too extreme? OK then.
You will not be promoted in your job because the male boss doesn't like the way you dress. You will not be allowed to finish your sentence in class because a male classmate believes that by virtue of having a penis he is smarter than you and you must be interrupted and corrected. You will not be comfortable walking across the crowded food court while a group on men huddled around a table by Taco Bell critique your walk, hair, face and fuckability. You will not be able to walk down the street to the local Sainsburys without a dude smacking your ass and running off. You will not be able to take credit for directing and shooting and writing Lost In Translation without Bret Easton Ellis, noted jerkwad, or any other random prick declaring your work that of your father's genes and your male cinematographer's talent. You will have to work twice as hard, and take twice as much shit and it still won't be enough, because all it takes is one dude calling you a slut or prude or saying, "Bros before hos" to ruin your credibility.
As the character Mona says in My Summer Of Love, “A colt will always beat a filly. A filly has to be really exceptional to beat a colt. Of course, you can get a filly who can beat one or two colts, but she has to be good enough to beat all the colts.” A woman has to fight the prejudices against her always, at all times. It’s not enough to be good at a job, a woman has to be the best and never waver.
Women turn from feminism in fear, because admitting being a feminist means admitting that they are not equal, that they are not safe, and that they will never be so unless change is made.
And men? I can understand where men are coming from when faced with feminism – no one wants to be told something negative about themselves, even if they really have no say in it whatsoever. It becomes the evil femnazi's trying to take away their Family Guy jokes and balls. (Honestly, I do not want your balls. I promise you this.) Even the nicest guys, the ones you love and care for the most, can become a little weirded out and defensive when faced with the idea that they have unearned privileges and power simply from having been born with right set of chromosomes.
But first, some background.
Via MovieLine, a brief snippet from the interview:
Interviewer: What are your thoughts on women directors? After you saw Andrea Arnold's Fish Tank, you tweeted that you might have to reevaluate your preconceived notions about them.Charming fellow, isn't he?
Brett Easton Ellis: I did. And after I saw [Floria Sigismondi's] The Runaways, too.
Really?
I loved it.
I wish I'd loved it.
Well, I wasn't looking forward to it. I avoided it, and then I was with some people and they said, "It starts soon at the Arclight. Let's go." So yeah, I do have to reevaluate that, but for the most part I'm not totally convinced, [except for] Andrea Arnold, Kathryn Bigelow, Sofia Coppola ...
Not Mary Harron?
Mary Harron to a degree. There's something about the medium of film itself that I think requires the male gaze.
What would that be?
We're watching, and we're aroused by looking, whereas I don't think women respond that way to films, just because of how they're built.
You don't think they have an overt level of arousal?
[They have one] that's not so stimulated by the visual. I think, to a degree, all the women I named aren't particularly visual directors. You could argue that Lost in Translation is beautiful, but is that [cinematographer Lance Acord]? I don't know. Regardless of the business aspect of things, is there a reason that there isn't a female Hitchcock or a female Scorsese or a female Spielberg? I don't know. I think it's a medium that really is built for the male gaze and for a male sensibility. I mean, the best art is made under not an indifference to, but a neutrality [toward] the kind of emotionalism that I think can be a trap for women directors. But I have to get over it, you're right, because so far this year, two of my favorite movies were made by women, Fish Tank and The Runaways. I've got to start rethinking that, although I have to say that a lot of the big studio movies I saw last year that were directed by women were far worse than the sh***y big-budget studio movies that were directed by men.
Which are we talking about?
I mean, do I want to say this on the record? Did you see The Proposal? Anyway, whatever.
So, remember a few weeks ago when I was talking about the male gaze?
I thought I was brief in my discussion of the male gaze. I assumed that those who read my blog are smart enough to grasp the gist of the concept from my brief explanation, and if I was too brief, too sparse in my conveying the level in which the world assumes the male gaze, one Google search of "Feminism Male Gaze" or perhaps "Feminist Theory Male Gaze" or even "Advertising Male Gaze" could clear up any thing I missed. (Clearly Bret Easton Ellis, noted asshat extraordinaire, never Googled these terms.)
Besides, women who read this probably didn't need me telling them. We're under male scrutiny, all day, every day in some way, shape or form. There's always going to be some dude commenting or looking or reacting or judging the way we: Talk, look, write, act, drink, eat, interact, react, dress, etc.
And before you tell me that this is human nature and that women judge each other all the time, and it's part of life yada yada ya – the massive difference here is that the male gaze is one of possession and judgment, rather than pity or pettiness or jealousy or boredom and judgment. It’s the possessive that makes the male gaze.
It means that your body, clothes, choices, speech, interactions, are not your own to decide until a male voice or aspect gives it approval.
And the negative consequences of this? If you are not approved, if you are at fault in some way, if you fail to meet whatever standard you're being held up against? You're less than human. You are free-game to be abused, raped, murdered, used, and disposed of. You are not real.
Those consequences a bit too extreme? OK then.
You will not be promoted in your job because the male boss doesn't like the way you dress. You will not be allowed to finish your sentence in class because a male classmate believes that by virtue of having a penis he is smarter than you and you must be interrupted and corrected. You will not be comfortable walking across the crowded food court while a group on men huddled around a table by Taco Bell critique your walk, hair, face and fuckability. You will not be able to walk down the street to the local Sainsburys without a dude smacking your ass and running off. You will not be able to take credit for directing and shooting and writing Lost In Translation without Bret Easton Ellis, noted jerkwad, or any other random prick declaring your work that of your father's genes and your male cinematographer's talent. You will have to work twice as hard, and take twice as much shit and it still won't be enough, because all it takes is one dude calling you a slut or prude or saying, "Bros before hos" to ruin your credibility.
As the character Mona says in My Summer Of Love, “A colt will always beat a filly. A filly has to be really exceptional to beat a colt. Of course, you can get a filly who can beat one or two colts, but she has to be good enough to beat all the colts.” A woman has to fight the prejudices against her always, at all times. It’s not enough to be good at a job, a woman has to be the best and never waver.
Women turn from feminism in fear, because admitting being a feminist means admitting that they are not equal, that they are not safe, and that they will never be so unless change is made.
And men? I can understand where men are coming from when faced with feminism – no one wants to be told something negative about themselves, even if they really have no say in it whatsoever. It becomes the evil femnazi's trying to take away their Family Guy jokes and balls. (Honestly, I do not want your balls. I promise you this.) Even the nicest guys, the ones you love and care for the most, can become a little weirded out and defensive when faced with the idea that they have unearned privileges and power simply from having been born with right set of chromosomes.
But then, we have guys like Bret Easton Ellis, noted scumbag.
Dude isn't hiding from his privilege. He's swimming in it. Diving in like Scrooge McDuck into his pile of gold and wallowing neck deep in it. Bret Easton Ellis, noted sexist prick, drinks fruity beverages with tiny umbrellas and a side of pineapple while laughing in his privilege. Dude loves it. He loves being right, being on the winning side of the chromosome lottery; he loves passing judgment and making broad absolute generalizations about women. He loves that his sadistic tome was turned into satire by a woman director and taking all the credit for it. Dude should start rubbing the suntan lotion on his ego now, because it's about to get hot. Burning hot.
Because there's nothing really more I can say about the snippet from Bret Easton Ellis, noted troglodyte, that the brilliant commenters over at Jezebel haven't already said.
Via Apollonia, MintCar, TurnItOff, Triflosa, BrownGirlInTheRing, Sinead.Elliot, Highsmith, and CassandraSays: With their wit, intellect and charm.
I can play this game too, overrated hack.
Men can't direct. I'm not totally convinced they can, except for Scorsese, Hitchcock and Mendes.
The failure to use logic can be gender reversed and it looks just as stupid.
Brilliant points:
I mean, do I want to say this on the record? Did you see Die Hard? Anyway, whatever.
"a medium that really is built for the male gaze and for a male sensibility."
It is a medium that has been dominated by the male gaze and male sensibility, which may be why he finds himself unable to appreciate art that wasn't created specifically for him. Meanwhile, every American woman ever has sucked it up and learned how to appreciate movies made by and for men, because if we want smart movies that is all we can get. Or we can watch the trite pieces of shit that are made as "women's movies" that give us no credit for having a modicum of intelligence, just the desire to trap a man and have him pay for lots and lots of clothes.
Or you can be like me and quit going to the movies because you get so fucking annoyed at how one-dimensional or pathetic virtually every female character is. It's funny how quickly one gets tired of having their humanity denied or degraded when just trying to watch a damn movie.
"Regardless of the business aspect of things, is there a reason that there isn't a female Hitchcock or a female Scorsese or a female Spielberg?"
Well, I'd say it's got quite a lot to do with that thing you choose to disregard: the business aspect of things.
Oh, our strange lady-parts:
Thank you, Mr Ellis, for that neat piece of "the exception proves the rule" nonsense. Seeing as there are SO FEW commercial female film directors, naming 3 that you like is actually a pretty high percentage of excellence, even if, apparently, they don't direct films WITH THEIR EYES, but rather, with some unknown, invisible woman-appendage that we use to see with in place of eyes.
To the point:
"Is there a reason that there isn't a female Hitchcock or a female Scorsese or a female Spielberg?"
Yeah: they're men. Having a case-by-case "female-equivalent" to every successful man is so beyond the point it's basically going to curve spacetime and hit the point in the back of the head.
"I think it's a medium that really is built for the male gaze and for a male sensibility."
Welcome to the Patriarchy: restricting the full potential of women's lives since time immemorial.
Numbers:
It's a numbers game. Only about 10% of movies are directed by women.
Out of a 1000 movies, about 100 would be directed by women.
It's more likely to find more good movies out of a group of 900 than out of a group of 100.
And more logic:
Circular logic. Movies traditionally feature the male gaze, therefore that is an intrinsic part of movie making. Women don't respond to visuals designed for men in the same way men do (we assume, without asking any women), therefore women are not responsive to visual stimuli, which is why they can't direct.
Basically, if women don't make movies which are all about framing women as desirable objects, they suck as directors. This message brought to you by Bret Easton Ellis's penis.
So, the simple moral of today's post?
Ladies and gentlemen, you needn’t open your wallet (or anything else) to someone who sees women as walking vaginas without brains.
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