inceptional

A tweet this afternoon reminded me that after going to see Inception at the cinema recently, I was all set to write down my thoughts about it.  It’s a couple of weeks on now but it was certainly a film that gave food for a good few days’ thinking.

I’m not going to review it; similarly to many of my blogs this is a more personal response to certain aspects of it.  Suffice to say that I enjoyed it but perhaps not as unreservedly as some.  I didn’t find it particularly confusing, it took an enjoyable amount of concentration to watch and an equally enjoyable amount of disbelief-suspension.  My favourite thing about it was the final moment of the film: I have never before seen the black screen elicit such a universal and audible gasp of frustration and appreciation from its audience.  It reminded me a little of the noise my dog makes when I pretend to throw the ball for him but really hide it behind my back.

So – don’t switch off – to the other part of my response: the female roles.  I was caught in a dichotomy: on the one hand, the film contains strong female characters; on the other, not very many.

I have nothing against nudity or sex scenes in general but how positive to see the main female leads, played by Ellen Page and Marion Cotillard, as fully-fleshed out characters without flashing the, well, flesh.  I had assumed that Page’s character would become a love interest for Leonardo Di Caprio (perhaps as a catalyst for him to leave aside his grief) but aside from a brief kiss with one of the team in a light-hearted moment, she was allowed to get on with her work as a serious member of the team.  Likewise, Cotillard played the beautiful and loving wife but pointed out clearly that this was an idealised, flaw-free version of herself in Di Caprio’s own dreamworld.  Yet the film was sexy, dynamic and stirring to watch without relying on actual sex.

On a more negative note, that was really it for women.  The male actors in the team were bloody brilliant and I would not begrudge a single one his part.  However it would have been so much easier on my eyes to see a few more women on the screen.  If you are a man and are still reading this (hello), I appreciate it might sound a bit picky, but watching a great film and seeing no women in it can make you feel that in some way you’re not welcome. It’s an instinctive response rather than an intentionally arsey one and one that minority ethnic groups can probably relate to.

My other thought was that as a film that seemed to be marketing itself as an intelligent thriller rather than a shoot-em-up, it did seem to tend towards the explosions and violence of the Big Dumb Movie more and more as it progressed.  Again I have nothing against the BDM, I like a good boom-splat-kerpow, I just felt that it ended up with fight after fight and this lost any effect or appeal.  Maybe the (chiefly-male) security dream-team needed something to do.  Or maybe the director was compensating for the lack of the other kind of physical contact.

Either way, I’ll definitely watch Inception again on DVD and I’m sure I’ll get even more from it.  I’ll just have to invite lots of people round to watch it with me so I can recreate that essential gasp-moment as the credits roll.

not dead yet

They are a common sight: in cities you have bill posters, in towns you have plastic notices stuck to lampposts on roundabouts.  They entice you to come to OCEANA or other hellish-sounding places and see DJ EZ (it’s always him, I don’t know why.  Possibly Mr EZ is affiliated to Hertfordshire and other areas have their own regular pull-ins, or perhaps he got a job lot of corrugated plastic and figured it was as good a way as any to lure A-road drivers to see his unique brand of plate-spinning).  Sometimes they are for an underage night, you can imagine Georgia and Luke* scribbling down the address in the back of their homework books, ready to bargain with Mummy and Daddy later.

They always look slightly illicit and temporary and perhaps that is their success, although if you believe you are going to an underground rave on a Thursday night in an Oceana, you probably need to revisit your expectations.

The one that caught my eye earlier this week as I headed up the A41 to Watford was for an OVER 30s NIGHT at a GOLF CLUB in RUISLIP.  I get the point of underage nights, but one for the over-30s?  I have not been able to get this idea out of my head and can’t stop wondering what such a thing might entail, and why.  Speaking from this age bracket myself, instinctively it sounds like the most unappetising offering for a Friday night I can imagine; even worse than staying in and watching Pete Vs Life.  Maybe.

Is it for ageing ravers who hate seeing their scene overtaken by meow-meow kids dancing to faux-techno and want to get down and dirty to some more purist beats?  That can’t be it, it clearly states on the poster: SMART DRESS – NO TRAINERS.  I’m thinking the soundtrack will be more James Blunt and Coldplay, drugs of choice Valium and omega-3 supplements.  Perhaps Dizzee Rascal and a line for the more daring.  Guests will consider themselves sophisticated but have an air of premature-ageing desperation.  Perhaps the venue is a clue.  Wood-panelled walls, fluorescent lighting in the trophy cabinets.  Do these people congregate to discuss their swing and their, er, iron? (My golfing knowledge is limited.)  But if so, then why advertise so broadly?  They might get people turning up who prefer squash, or bridge.  Horrors**.

Maybe they are just bitter about being OVER 30 and don’t want to risk bumping into any joyful 23-year-olds, casually enjoying life with no interest in mortgages and teething issues.  Maybe I’m being unfair and they just want to avoid people who think Nick Grimshaw is cool.

I suppose it could be a singles’ night, but somehow to me it says very loudly, couples only.  The only people I can imagine seeing the sign and attending are called Charles and Tilly*.  They pull up at the lights and clock the notice.  “Blimey!  Write that address down, Tills.  We’ll give it a go next Friday night.  There might be swingers!”.  Ah yes, that’s it.  That’s what that notice says to me.  All that remains is to book the babysitter and dig out the rubber underwear.

*Some names have been changed.

**Not The Horrors.  Maybe Jamie Cullum if things need livening up a bit.

come together

I went to a feminist summer school this weekend.  You may laugh, if you like.  There were things that made me laugh, like the badges for sale saying ‘Menstruate with Pride’.  I didn’t part with the pound it would have cost me, I figured if I really wanted one, perhaps @simontkey could make it for me next time he is feeling generous with his creativity.  To be honest I prefer to menstruate with subtlety.  I’d rather have one saying ‘it’s not PMT, I just really hate you’.

I digress, because I am tired.  Empowerment is exhausting.

I won't attempt a review but these are my thoughts and responses after two days of #femschool.

I signed up for the event some time ago because I have been interested for a long time in women’s issues but had no idea how to get involved, or what sort of involvement I wanted.  I knew I didn’t want to shout slogans and wave placards; I also knew I didn’t want to have endless negative discussions about things that were unlikely to change.  I’m not a ranty person but I still wanted my voice to be heard against the injustices I saw in the world.

So this seemed to be an opportunity to find out what was out there and if there were any people thinking similarly to me.  Also, it was free.

I nearly didn’t go: after a low week the thought of spending two days in the company of strangers was terrifying.  What should I wear?  What should I say to people?  Will I be judged or branded unfeminist for some of my views (or indeed for worrying about what to wear)?

The event was being held at the Amnesty offices in Shoreditch.  One of the sessions was led by a woman from Amnesty who had led a campaign for a change in law to assist women who need to leave a violent partner but are ineligible for public funds.  During this talk it occurred to me that saying one is a feminist often results in an eye-roll or derogatory comment whereas saying one is a supporter of human rights issues does not.  Sitting in the auditorium, the stage flanked by banners featuring the barbed wire-wrapped candle, it suddenly seemed blindingly obvious to me that feminist issues are human rights issues.

This thought stayed with me all weekend and coloured my views of everything else I saw.  This morning I found myself watching a film on female genital mutilation, which was less funny than the menstruation badges.  A recent Guardian article about this happening to British girls highlighted the subject which is often my counter to the assertion that feminism’s job ended with the vote and the pill.

I will admit that I had bought a packet of ten Marlboros on the way there as a prop: smokers’ corners are good (if unhealthy) places for the networking-shy to hang out in the hope of either joining a conversation by osmosis or else looking nonchalant about not joining one.  In the event I overheard someone mention Snog Marry Avoid and accidentally blurted out the opinion that it is quite a feminist programme, thus finding myself mid-debate.  This led to a discussion about inclusivity in feminism: should it welcome people who are anti-abortion, glamour models, men?  This was a conversation that seemed to be popping up all over the place and one that particularly interests me.  Unless you are interested in feminism, or you know me, you are perhaps unlikely to have read this far (if you have, thank you).  But that is what I would really like to change.  Being at the summer school clarified those thoughts for me and made me feel that it is possible to take some action that I can identify with.

I'm glad I braved it.  I met interesting, thoughtful and welcoming people.  Recently I reviewed a play from which my favourite quote was ‘we shouted, not shrieked’.  There was a lot of laughing, debating, clapping and cheering this weekend.  But no shrieking.

shredding

Incoherent with tears

Grotesque, bloated

Shades of pink and pink

Sitting with a pile of paper

A shredder

Unable to destroy

The last traces of a life

The dog licks away my tears,

Because he likes the salt.

He brings me toys,

Because he wants to play.

A guttural, throaty groan,

I do not recognise the noise

Of my own laugh

I try to let it all out

It’s healthy, they say

But the pain in my temples

Grows more intense

I feel blinded, migrained

I try to locate my synapses

To send a message: stop

A reply comes back: leave

Walk away from the pictures and words

Reprieve for another day

I abandon the scene of destruction

Wait for my body to catch up

Listen to the sobs clutching me

Watch the drops fall from my cheeks to my knees

Later, my eyes are throbbing

I can taste the salt on my lips.

Women, Power and Politics

a review I wrote: http://www.thefword.org.uk/reviews/2010/07/women_power_pol

reasons to be feminist cont'd

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/10220920.stm

sex and the vitriol

Ah, the Sex And The City premiere, brilliant. Hacks of both sexes must be ejaculating uncontrollably into their M&S pants. For what else can provide an opportunity quite as good as this to talk about how rubbish women are?


First, the film. I have no doubt that it is execrable, utterly without wit or wisdom, blah blah. It probably has no more plotholes or flimsy characters than The Matrix Reloaded, or Pirates of the Caribbean FFS, or Saw 43; but those were films with special effects and guns and stuff. What does this have? Shoes?


Some women might really enjoy it, which proves they are stupid. Some might concede that it is shit but claim that the TV series was much sharper, which proves they are stupid. Some women might argue that they never watched it anyway, which proves that they are probably ugly.


Then – oh joy – the actresses and their characters. According to your article, you can cry that these squealing brunchers are cariacatures of stereotypes of cartoonish puppets, or completely representative of all women. Whichever angle you take, don’t forget some outrage at them having either no wrinkles or too many; being too beautiful or too imperfect. That Sarah Jessica Parker, daring to take her place on our screens with a longer-than-average nose and face. Her character, Carrie, a writer? As if anyone with an interest in shoes can string a sentence together. And Kim/Samantha: I mean who the fuck does she think she is, enjoying sex at her age? Don’t forget to talk about how large her vagina probably is. Cynthia? Ginger and lesbian, ‘nuff said. If you’re taking an indignant quasi-feminist angle, you can point out what a bad role model her character Miranda is for giving up her job; if sexist, you can use it as proof positive that women should stay out of the boardroom. Ditto Charlotte, with her perfect wife-and-mother act. The keyword for all four, chaps, is desperate.


We come to the premiere itself. The four women on the red carpet. Look at them smiling. We know they hate each other because they are women. Look at their frocks. Look at their hats! Look at their made-up, shiny faces. It’s almost as though they feel the pressure of a thousand keystrokes on the back of their necks, reminding them that any flaw will be highlighted, every pore pored over.


Other famous women go to see the film. They also wear frocks and frightened smiles. They too will be pawed at and pored over, tweeted and blogged. Someone will hate Peaches Geldof. Someone will wish that Amanda Holden would shoot herself rather than wear a possibly-misjudged homage frock. Everyone will despise them. Anyone who doesn’t; well, they’re probably stupid enough to go and see the film.