#reduced to a love interest of the white protagonist and sexualized with little else to go off of as a character

[strawberry-miiiiiiiiiiiilk]

sitting in my room for a half hour thinking about how if we lived in a better world Ada Wong would be the Ilsa Faust of Resident Evil (primarily in how she's introduced in Rogue Nation), with a dynamic to leon not unlike Fujiko Mine's and Lupin's in which they are both extremely competent and in situations in which they may have to work against and occasionally with each other on a mission, but ultimately are forced to stay apart and while they may be apart and even have different love interests from each other, ultimately still care deeply for one another. They are compelled to go after each other in part because it's so difficult and they are so often in circumstances in which they can't be with each other. The thrill of the chase and all that.

Ada being only tangentially related to the other character's stories because the world is simply larger than them and she has her own concerns and problems to deal with, and to have that be given any care or weight in a story, let alone focus. That she can be cunning and even manipulative but because she needs to and will still choose not to when the chips are down because she is genuinely caring--which I know none of that is new ground for her but I wish it was done in a more interesting way and *without leon at all*. She chooses to show mercy in a key point not because she's in love with that other character.

And also that she has more personality. I dig the subdued nature of her in 4r and her subtle sarcasm but it's just crumbs. I want her to be silly on occasion and say dumb jokes because she's alone like in 2r. I want her to shed a bit of that seriousness when she's on the clock because she's confident in herself as a professional and again has no one to put up a façade to.

It's honestly kinda embarrassing reading this back as I realize most of what I'm writing is not only already present in the games but incredibly tropey in and of itself, and wouldn't improve the character much. Dear god I think too much of my view of the character has been marred by shallow fanworks depicting her. I think if anything it's a sign that:

I'm a shit writer and need to do way more than watch movies and gesture vaguely at them to come up w a decent story or character (that being said as much as I prefer Fallout as a film, I stand by my earlier statement of Ilsa Faust being the ideal spy woman as she's depicted in Rogue Nation as she has a distinct set of goals and needs that are complex and developed largely tangentially to the protagonist's, at least initially).

It's going to take a completely new approach to her character to get something remotely interesting and that takes advantage of her potential.

For as mired in tropes as she and every other character and story in Resident Evil is, Ada could be far more memorable and enjoyable if only there was more care and effort to giver at least some interests and goals (perhaps even...characterization) on her own other than being a sexy love interest and potentially traitorous (as so many femme fatales already are).

#I mean she basically already is Fujiko I just wish it was more fun and gave her shit to do that didn't exclusively revolve around leon #I have a lot of thoughts about leon as a character and as much as I enjoy their over-the-top mr & mrs smith romance also fuck leon #Sighs....I know I'm asking too much from a franchise that has famously bad writing and largely archetypal characters but it's maddening #Mostly to me personally because I love spy shit and femme fatales for how messy and misogynistic the archetype is it's my favorite #So it kills me that a cool femme fatale like Ada who has so much potential as a character is relentlessly squandered #And it's the most annoying thing in the world to me to complain about fandoms/fans but I'll be a hypocrite and vent that it bugs me #How much fan media revolves around a*on and coming up with idealized domestic fantasies for them which can be chopped up to misogyny #And how tropey fan shit is but still it's so dull and often bends Ada into an ideal wife/gf for leon but not explore Anything Else At All #Not every romance has to end in marriage and kids like what about the inherent drama of them being forced apart isn't #Compelling to fans? What I'm trying to say is I want them to have a painfully messy divorce and a game or movie exclusively about Ada #*and I mean like they never marry just break up but emotionally it's a messy divorce that's ultimately for the best given their jobs #Also I am far too out of my depth to go into it but many have pointed out how her characterization often falls into pretty #nasty tropes that Asian women often fall into in Hollywood films which considering how much US blockbusters influence re it's not surprisin #But it's unfortunate and I'd be remised to at least mention that it feels at best dicey to have the only recurring Asian woman be mostly #reduced to a love interest of the white protagonist and sexualized with little else to go off of as a character #Yes she's competent and a super spy and saves his life constantly but I Want More And She Deserves Better #And yes everyone is super tropey and flat and the women in general often take a back seat to male charas but like I said #this whole franchise is badly written and honestly it kills me how women are written in general in re but I was thinking too hard about Ada #And maybe a sign that this series needs an even bigger overhaul than the remakes are doing character writing-wise #Or just don't and jettison the bloated lore once and for all and be episodic and silly b-horror idk if I can care about established charas #Coming back if they're in such dull forms. Maybe the mercy kill option is ideal and have re9 and all new installments be different #Ugh why can't I care about something useful like computers or cooking or job applications

[vmheadquarters]

Twelve years ago today, UPN (RIP!) premiered a cult-classic neo-noir about murder, class warfare, sexual assault, and forbidden love. It was quippy and campy and smart as hell—and it just happened to center on a pint-sized blonde who looked like a cheerleader but thought like Sherlock Holmes. The show was Veronica Mars, and even if the last decade has muddled its legacy with a much-hyped but ultimately disappointing fan-funded follow-up film and, of course, the extremely meh third season, the high school years remain an unparalleled success. Veronica Mars seasons one and two were better than anything that had come before, far surpassed its competition in quality, and set a high bar for future shows that has only barely been met by a few episodes of television here and there. So give my regards to Friday Night Lights (a family show, not a teen show) and Degrassi (please), but Veronica Mars is the best teen show of all time*. 

1. Nuanced Class Conflict

Gossip Girl and The OC did it well, but Veronica Mars did it better. Even though Neptune, CA, is technically fictional, it's as real a place as has ever been portrayed on television. Its particular problems and reputation informed everything from law enforcement (the question of whether or not to incorporate the town into a city and make the sheriff's office into a police department) to the biker gangs riding through on their way up and down the PCH. The levels of privilege/lack thereof were so nuanced and specific. Other shows divide people into the Haves and the Have Nots; on Veronica Mars, everyone has something a little different. At the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder is Weevil, whose background is not only impoverished but criminal; the only community he can "afford" is a gang (though his crew isn't all bad—you'll find nary a broad stroke or generalization in the world of Veronica Mars). In the center of things are Veronica and Keith, who lived comfortably when Keith was sheriff, but have buckled their belts since he became a private eye. On the one hand, they own a small business! On the other, they live in a pretty crap apartment complex and have nowhere near enough saved to send Veronica to college. Then there's the nouveau-riche Echolls', who have all the glamorous trappings of wealth (cars, booze, mansion) and pretty much none of the cultural capital. At the top of the heap are the Kanes; while the Echolls' have enough money to "get away" with murder, the Kanes have enough money to get away with it, cover it up, frame someone else for it, and get the sheriff fired for looking into it. Money problems are basically the least-juicy of TV plots, but by using wealth disparity as a way to develop the characters, essentially building it into the DNA of the show, Veronica Mars created a TV universe just as interesting and complicated as that of Friday Night Lights or Parks and Recreation.

2. Lianne Mars

A girl with a missing mom is a fairy tale trope as old as time, rooted in a deification-of-the-female version of misogyny that I don't have time to get into right now. Suffice it to say, a dead or absentee mother is usually a sign of lazy writing. It's a way to reduce the character count and set a heroine adrift while, not coincidentally, making it so the (usually male) writer doesn't have to think of what a grown woman would think or talk or act like. At first, this is the fate of Veronica's mother, Lianne Mars. She was just conveniently...gone, another casualty of the fallout from the Lilly Kane murder investigation. Her absence lets Veronica be angsty and ill-supervised even as Keith Mars entered the canon of Bestest TV Dads of All Time (which he is! Love Keith forever and ever). But then she came back, with baggage, and the trope was, if not redeemed, at least put to good use. Lianne is an alcoholic who couldn't deal with the disappointing turns life took, and she finally cracked when her husband ran directly into conflict with her lost love Jake Kane, for whom she still pined. Even when she decides she wants to be a mom again, she can't quit being an alcoholic. And as heartbreaking as it is to watch Veronica play the parent, it's also a moment of growth. Veronica realizes—or rather, decides—that she isn't doomed to repeat her mother's mistakes. She is a stronger, better person than Lianne. A person big enough to love her flawed mother, even strong enough to forgive her. In the third episode, Veronica says, "The hero is the one that stays, and the villain is the one that splits." By the end of the series, Veronica has learned what true villainy looks like, and it ain't her mom. Showrunners, take note: This is how you do a realistic redemption story.

3. The Guest Stars and Bit Players

The casting department at Veronica Mars did flawless work. Obviously, the core cast is great, but the semi-regulars and guests are also amazing. There's an entire season devoted to Steve fucking Guttenberg. Lisa Rinna and Harry Hamlin play the negaverse versions of themselves. Ryan Hansen and Ken Marino do their Ryan Hansen/Ken Marino Shtick, and why shouldn't they? Max Greenfield (a.k.a. Schmidt on New Girl) and Tessa Thompson (from Dear White People and Creed) both had recurring roles long before they were famous, and even Tina Majorino (Mac) and Michael Muhney (Lamb), who didn't really "break out" in a major way after the show, are perfect in their roles. The second (SECOND) IMDb credit for one Jessica Chastain is an episode of Veronica Mars, and of course, Leighton Meester appears in two episodes. Yes, there are other teen shows that feature young actors who went on to bigger, better things, but I maintain that Veronica Mars is notable for encouraging real actors to do real work.

4. The Mysteries Were Smart AF

The show trusted its audience to keep up and pay attention. Maybe even a little too much. In the era before binge-watching and old episodes being able on demand, Veronica Mars suffered from the same issue that plagues the first few seasons of The X Files: Viewers who weren't "caught up" on the season-long mystery arc found it difficult to get into. VM had low ratings throughout its run, and when it used the shift from high school to college to introduce shorter, quicker mysteries, well, we all know how season three went. But looking back, it's clear that the show was ahead of its time, telling smart, twist-y weekly stories while teasing out a longer mystery that deeply impacted the main characters' lives. (Can't you just imagine how they'd advertise the show now? Moody teaser trailers with the tag line "Who Killed Lilly Kane?" and fansites and podcasts devoted to all the clues and hints and easter eggs from every episode?) There are other teen mystery/crime-fighter shows, sure, but they tend to put their characters in immediate peril, which makes the audience ask, "What's going to happen?" Instead, Veronica Mars is an intellectual exercise, evidence and theory based, and the question becomes, "What has already happened, and what does it mean?" That's the kind of meaty writing that inspires, if not legions of fans, a loyal audience to sing its praises. Veronica Mars was so smart it was niche. I'm not making a case for VM as overlooked prestige television, but then again I totally am. WHY didn't it win any Emmys?

5. They Didn't Explain Every Little Thing

See: above "trusting the audience smartness" factor. They didn't explain why sleeping with a "consenting" teenager is still wrong, or why Logan and Veronica went from adversaries to lovers in the space of like, a week, or why money equals power. They got that the audience got it. So, the exact opposite of a show like, say, Secret Life of the American Teenager. There were episodes that touched on privilege and entitlement and infidelity and the abuse of power by law enforcement, but it was subtle and real instead of, you know...Degrassi.

6. The Humor

It wasn't dark and humorous, it was darkly humorous and humorously dark. (Think combining the creepy weirdness of Twin Peaks with the banter of Moonlighting.) Logan's poignant answering machine messages, Veronica's epic takedowns, even Lamb got to be withering and snarky while he systematically fucked over the whole town.The humor kept us invested even when stories dipped into sentimental, Dawson's Creek-esque territory and deflected the romance-y moments that might have turned it into a mystery-style Felicity. Veronica's and Logan's jokes, in particular, also serve a psychological purpose: mask their pain at any cost. Unlike in Gilmore Girls, where every character speaks like a hyper-intelligent stand-up comic and not at all like a teenager or real human being, Veronica and the residents of Neptune make comments that feel true to their characters and relevant to their circumstances. If you watched any episode of Scream Queens and thought, "I guess they're trying to imitate...Scream? Heathers? Clueless? With the smart/bitchy blondes and the snappy comebacks and the eye rolls?" I understand. But actually, they were trying (and failing. Hard.) to do Veronica Mars. Smart sassy cute mean heart of gold flirty clever repartee? Yeah, that's Veronica Mars, and Ryan Murphy, bless his soul, is not Rob Thomas.

7. The Rape Plot(s)

From the very first episode when, in a flashback, golden-haired, white dress-clad Veronica walks, almost in a stupor (have you ever seen a more "perfect" victim?) into the sheriff's office to tell Lamb that she was raped—because she is a good girl and good girls go to the authorities—only to have him, basically, shrug it off, rape and sexual assault were core themes of the show, central to its purpose and story engine. Creator Rob Thomas initially envisioned the story as a YA novel with a male protagonist, and changing the lead's gender to female is arguably the best and most important decision he ever made. Veronica's sexuality is everything. How she flirts her way out of scrapes, plays innocent when it can help her, distrusts it when she's attracted to the "wrong" person, is allowed to enjoy it with Logan and, of course, how her virginity was taken from her one night she can't quite remember. The show takes Veronica's rape seriously as not just a plot point or easy motivation, but as a defining part of her character. She cleans obsessively and looks over her shoulder. She's sensitive to the potential aggressors—and victims—at her school. She knows that her rapist was someone she knew, and she has to live with that mystery every day. But it's complicated. That night she can't remember might have been semi-consensual, but then we learn, no it wasn't. Yes, there's a story about a false rape accusation (against Adam Scott!), but the truth only makes the situation murkier. And in an unfortunately rare move, Veronica Mars also depicts the aftermath of the sexual abuse of boys, including an exploration of how the stigma against male assault survivors re-traumatizes them. (The third season is, in my opinion, a missed opportunity to tackle the campus rape epidemic. By blaming the rapes on a psychological experiment gone awry, the show unfortunately ignores the fact that toxic masculinity isn't a role-playing aberration but a pervasive national issue. But its heart is in the right place, if not its logic.)

8. Veronica

Choker-wearing, dog-owning, private-detectiving blonde badass Veronica Mars. She's most often compared to Buffy, that other crime-fighting cutie with a ragtag army of friends and a ne'er do well love interest, and the comparison is apt. Both possess skills their peers do not and use those skills to solve problems both thrust upon them and sought. But the difference is that in the space that Buffy uses to explore the supernatural, Veronica Mars plays with loyalty and ethics. Is it wrong to snitch on your friends? Is a rumor evidence? Can you break the law to serve a higher good? These are issues Buffy doesn't wrestle with; it's pretty much a given that evil vampires are worth defeating (yes, there are definitely instances when Buffy is tested because she's fallen for a vamp or one of her friends is possessed or whatever, but that's not like, the thing of the show). And while so many other "outsider/observer/new kid" teen show protagonists (Ryan, Dan, Dawson, Lindsay Weir) long to get "in," Veronica's been there. She's been popular, and (a little) wealthy. She's not exploring a new world, she's re-learning her old one. In that she has more in common with Angela Chase, but way less whiny. You watch My So-Called Life and think, I'm totally Angela. You watch VMand think, I wish I were Veronica. When people talk about the strong but vulnerable but smart but flawed but cool but real but beautiful but relatable but empowered but conflicted but modern but iconic but a good role model but not unattainable with a job not defined by that job "interesting" female characters on television, a few names tend to come up again and again: Carrie, Murphy, Ally, Roseanne, Olivia, Dana. To that (very white!) pantheon I humbly submit: Veronica.

*....except for Freaks and Geeks.

#veronica mars

[icecypher-fanart]

Marvel Comics: Power Man and Iron Fist. Comic books sexualize men. They display men as nothing more than prizes for the females to earn and brag about. In the 70s, Mary Jo Duffy (a WHITE FEMALE writer) wrote a book where Iron Fist and Power Man were shown as sexual objects and not much more. In the book we have two strong female heroes Misty Knight and Colleen Wing. They are respected by the police. They are skilled and smart. They have their own business as private investigators. And may I mention that they are always shown wearing appropriate work clothes? Then we have the sexualized male heroes Power Man and Iron Fist. Iron Fist is shown as a naïve boy who needs Colleen Wing to tell him what he has to do. His mother has to save him early on because he is not able to defend himself; he needs a woman to be there for him. He is aimless until the moment when he meets Misty Knight, when he is instantly smitten by her; we see this in his own thought balloons, where we read how he now spends his time thinking about her. His costume shows his entire chest. Let me repeat that. His super hero costume leaves his entire chest on plain view of everyone. As if saying that his skill as a super hero does not matter, he is there to be seen as a sex object, period. A lot of scenes show him naked or wearing little clothing. Power Man is always shown to us in relation to the women around him. His life revolves around said women. Reva Connors and Claire Temple, who leave his life taking all purpose of his own away from him. Then there is Harmony Young, a strong, independent woman who earns a lot of money, decides exactly what she wants to do with her life (as we see when she even strongly walks away from a work assignment) and has Power Man thinking about her all the time. And, just like Iron Fist, Power Man has a super hero costume that emphasizes his figure and exposes his chest. His shirt also tends to get ripped apart during fights, so he always ends up shirtless. Many scenes in his room have him in his underwear. When Power Man and Iron Fist start their own business, it is called "Heroes for Hire", showing exactly how they want these men to be seen, as objects to be hired. But that's not all. Jeryn Hogarth, an associate of Heroes for Hire, cannot do anything on his own and needs his exceedingly skilled female employees to do everything for him. Jenny Royce, the woman who is in charge of Heroes for Hire, is talented and keeps the business under control. She looks down on the two heroes and bosses them around. Bob Diamond is introduced as Iron Fist's friend, but is later reduced to a love interest for the female protagonist Colleen Wing. He is almost always shirtess or baring his chest. He is an actor, which is a stereotypical job given to men to show how delicate they are. An actor who serves only as a prize for Colleen. DW is Power Man's friend. He is shown as incapable to even attack a vampire that was not even seeing him, in a story that has Power Man and him be saved only by the coincidence of garlic bread being found nearby. Stiletto is Power Man and Iron Fist's first villain as a team. He is a big menace for them, and we can see that, even if he is male, he has a name that is related to female things, reinforcing the superiority of the female gender. All of this just goes on and on. It is obvious that the comics have an agenda to make men look like the weaker gender, always needing women to save them or to give them purpose and always seen as an sexual prize and nothing else.

#fan art #marvel comics #heroes for hire #defenders #iron fist #power man #luke cage #danny rand #sexism #feminism #sjw #i know mary jo duffy did not create them and did not write that vampire story but it is funnier this way #let's see who thinks this is serious

[cartoonessays]

The Smurfette

Who is Smurfette?  As most people know, Smurfette is the lone female Smurf in Smurfville originally created by the evil Gargamel in order to sow discord and jealousy among the other Smurfs.

In 1991, writer and cultural critic Katha Pollitt coined the term “Smurfette principle” to describe the trend of narratives in media overwhelmingly male focused but with one female character.  As she describes it,

“Contemporary shows are either essentially all-male, like “Garfield,” or are organized on what I call the Smurfette principle: a group of male buddies will be accented by a lone female, stereotypically defined… The message is clear. Boys are the norm, girls the variation; boys are central, girls peripheral; boys are individuals, girls types. Boys define the group, its story and its code of values. Girls exist only in relation to boys.”

The Smurfette principle is based on the main theory of Simone de Beauvoir’s analysis of women’s subservient role in society in her seminal work The Second Sex, but applied to our media.  The two videos below provide an even more comprehensive analysis of how this has played out.

In the two and a half decades since Pollitt coined this term, I’m pretty sure most people with a least a minor understanding of media theory are aware of this trope and why it’s an issue.  But I bring up the Smurfette principle in order to bring up a similar issue that I think a large chunk of our current-day #staywoke political landscape still has a blind spot to.

In the Feminist Frequency video, Anita Sarkeesian briefly mentioned the practice of inserting a token minority character in an overwhelmingly white cast.  This trope plays out much like the Smurfette principle; this character often serves as the stand-in for cultural diversity and provides and extremely reductive view of not just a minority being represented, but all minorities in general.

How would most people react if I or a group of people vocally demanded that Disney puts out a film with a black protagonist?  Most would get angry and before shooting the messenger would point to Tiana in The Princess and the Frog, right?  What would be the reaction if I or this same group demanded Disney creates a film with an Asian, Native American, or Polynesian protagonist?  Same thing, except insert Mulan, Pocahontas, or Moana instead, correct?

Now, how would most people react if Disney decided that they would never put a film starring a white protagonist again?  They would find that outrageous, right?

And that’s my point.  A good chunk of the population of get quite angry if Disney stated they would never have a white protagonist in any of their movies again.  Even if Disney went through with this, they would still have Snow White and the seven Dwarfs, Pinocchio, Cinderella and her step-family, Alice, Peter Pan and the Darlings, Princess Aurora and her fairy godmothers, Roger and Anita Radcliffe, Arthur, Penny from The Rescuers, Taran, Ariel, Cody from The Rescuers Down Under, Belle, Quasimodo, Hercules, Tarzan, Milo, Jim Hawkins, Lewis and the Robinsons, Rapunzel, Flynn and Mother Gothel, and Anna and Elsa to fall back on (this doesn’t even include their live-action movies or the Pixar films).  So why is it that people of color are expected to just shut up and smile over just one Tiana, Mulan, Pocahontas, or Moana?  It’s been almost ten years since The Princess and the Frog and there hasn’t even been a black character in any of their movies except for that one supporting character in Big Hero 6, let alone a black protagonist.  The only Asian protagonist in a Disney film in the almost twenty years since Mulan has been Hiro from Big Hero 6.  Native Americans have all but disappeared from Disney in the 20+ years since Pocahontas.  Moana is the most recent Disney film, but I’m betting that film will be Disney’s singular way of telling the Polynesian indiginous population…well, y’know…

That patronizing attitude is very much indicative of not just Disney’s application of minority characters, but also the attitude of a lot of liberal-minded websites, bloggers, and activists, many of which fight for greater representation of people of color.  When there is a minor step taken in more diverse representation, like a Polynesian Disney princess, a little black girl starring in one of DreamWorks’ films Home (there is George Beard in the upcoming Captain Underpants film, but that only brings the grand total up to two out of 35 films from that studio), or a multicultural retcon of a previously white Marvel superhero, it’s accompanied with a congratulatory, “mission accomplished” attitude that basks heavily (and unhealthily in my opinion) in the praise it gets.  Most recently, Disney has made a big deal about declaring the Gaston crony Le Fou gay in their live-action Beauty and the Beast remake.  My critiques here are in no way saying that it would be better for Disney or anybody else to not even try to diversify their media.  What I am saying is that one gay Le Fou is only a start.  One Polynesian princess is only a start.  One Pakistani Ms. Marvel is only a start.  Stopping with those token gestures is just the Smurfette principle with a different hat on.  It’s particularly offensive when token gestures like these are used as a masturbatory status symbol of one’s own #wokeness, as fuel to engage in menial online “more #woker than thou” pissing contests with other white liberals, or to reduce a rich culture to consumable commodity for your own profit.

In short, it’s this:

Our society conditions all of us to see whiteness or maleness or heterosexuality as the standard and anything outside of that as deviant.  It gets ingrained in our minds and gives us assumptions that we don’t question unless we force ourselves to.  I admit that when Nostalgia Chick talked about how the Smurfette principle applied to the Nicktoons, my knee-jerk thought was “But, but Rugrats has more than two major female characters and so does Doug!”  Those two shows don’t exist divorced from a Nicktoon landscape that viewed gender-neutral marketed shows with almost entirely dudes except maybe one or two female characters, one of which serves as some love interest or something.  The attitude behind the scenes of Rocko’s Modern Life when asked to add a character that was “a professional woman, someone with a good hook” was to snidely give their new female character a literal hook.  Considering that the only female protagonists in the long list of Nicktoons are Eliza Thornberry, Ginger Foutley, “Jenny” XJ-9, Bessie Higgenbottom, and Korra, there hasn’t been a lot of change in 25 years.  Heck, the only protagonists of color in any of the Nicktoons are Aang, Korra, Sanjay, Tak, Manny Rivera, and Jimmy Neutron’s Sheen in his short-lived spinoff.

Nobody from no gender, ethnic group, sexual affiliation, economic status, or anything can be reduced to a Smurfette.  And if anyone expects you to be satisfied with your Smurfette, you’re never out of line to demand this:

#smurfette #smurfette principle #diversity in media #representation #Disney #nickelodeon #nicktoons #cartoon essays #just my thoughts

[the-film-bitch]

Hell or High Water (2016) ★★★★

Having delivered a genre-busting film with a strong sense of place in 2011’s Glaswegian near-dystopia Perfect Sense, Scottish director David Mackenzie explores less familiar territory in his latest offering, Hell or High Water, with the help of native Texan screenwriter Taylor Sheridan (Sicario). The second in Sheridan’s self-proclaimed ‘Western trilogy’ of screenplays, Hell is less easily pigeon-holed than Sicario, functioning as both an appraisal of modern masculinity and a buddy movie about brothers, both biological and professional. Ultimately, though, this is a nostalgia-tinged, state-of-the-nation film chronicling the post-recession forsaken lands of West Texas. As TV’s Westworld has recently explored, old worlds – especially the old West – contain adventure narratives no longer accessible in our hyper-technical present, and so it is with Hell’s dying Texas.

Hell’s youth have been abandoned by modernity, left to rot in the dust of their deserts following the economic onslaught of 2008, while its aging population are too resistant to change to care anyway. There is a very palpable sense of this rural abandonment in the cinematography: Giles Nuttgens’ lens crosses empty swathes of land to find the little towns that make up the film’s setting, and when it does, the scene is almost post-mortemal. The camerawork lays it on thick, magnifying the post-recession death throes of rural America, where signs of life are few: countless debt relief adverts and closing down signs strew the roadside, while the gargantuan skeletons of oil wells intrude in the background, heaving and seething in the summer heat. The juxtaposition is about as subtle as a Banksy, but these frames signal this Western’s unusual central themes: capitalism and its (im)morality.

Sheridan’s screenplay, as with Nuttgens’ work, is chiefly rooted in this sign-of-the-times style discourse. His characters lament the decay of their surroundings: big banks are rapidly assuming the role of American colonialism, one Texas Ranger (Gil Birmingham) argues, with military strategy being replaced by wily bureaucracy. Even lawyers, that most-hated of film professions, can’t stomach the unique evil of the bank’s ‘reverse mortgage’ scheme that threatens Hell’s protagonists: ‘It’s just so arrogant it makes my teeth hurt.’

If the law offers no protection from corporate greed, the law must be broken, or so brothers Tanner (Ben Foster) and Toby Howard (Chris Pine) reason. Days away from a foreclosure on the family ranch (which sits on prime oil ground), the poverty-stricken two formulate a plan to hit the very bank that is swindling them for the money required to pay off the ‘reverse mortgage’.

Hell sets itself apart from the recent crop of heist films here, in which the emphasis has usually been placed on the technical cunning of the robbers and their ruthless appetite for money, often rivalled only by their target itself (Inside Man is a classic here). The heists are much simpler affairs in Hell, requiring only the modest bank robber starter pack of a ski mask and a gun. Surveillance is a non-issue, and Texas’ plains are free and plentiful, accommodating anyone who needs to make a getaway fast. If anything, Hell makes you wonder why no one else has had the Howard brothers’ initiative yet.

Westerns are often valued for the escapist entertainment they provide – see Westworld for a meta-example of this point – but Hell is gritty realism to the core. Its socio-economic scene-setting aside, this is chiefly down to its fleshed-out characterisation, with excellent performances from all – a frenetically-charged Foster, and Jeff Bridges and Gil Birmingham as the Rangers on their tail – and a career best from Pine (as the brooding Howard brother) giving rich display to the bonds of brotherhood and the stifling way in which hegemonic Western masculinity censors affection between men.

With respect to its women, though, Hell hasn’t much altered the formula of the old Westerns. Its female characters are still reduced to those who smile enough, signifying their ability to provide palliative sexual care – the young waitress who’ll give you her number – and thorny, ornery harridans – the razor-tongued old waitress who’ll have your head for ordering the wrong thing. It would be a crying shame if this flat characterisation was intended to cement Hell’s position as a “man’s movie” by making misogynistic gripes about women its point of common reference.

 On the surface, the core of the classic Western’s conflict between ‘Indians’ and ‘Cowboys’ looks to be subverted in Hell: white-hat Ranger Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) is brother-in-badge with part-Hispanic, part-Native American Ranger Parker (Gil Birmingham), whom Sheridan doesn’t ascribe with the racist tropes usually assigned to Native American characters. Blessedly, too, Hell doesn’t shy away from the brutality of pioneer-era America: Parker speaks with knowing disdain of the white settlers’ bloody appropriation of his ancestors’ land, while another Comanche man echoes this sentiment, lampooning the popular epithet ‘Lords of the plains!’ with the retort ‘Lords of nothing now’.

But like a reflective surface, there’s deceiving depth here. Hell’s status as a revisionist Western is limited. While Parker might not be racistly essentialised, Hell’s white characters (particularly Jeff Bridges’ and Ben Foster’s) feast on a mythologised version of Native American identity to feed their ego and tell their jokes, dehumanising all the Native Americans they meet.

Tanner is obsessed with bedtime ‘Indian’ legends, and doggedly employs Native American tropes to build his own self-aggrandising fantasy: ‘We’re like the Comanches, little brother. Lords of the plains... Raidin’ where we please, with the whole of Texas huntin’ our shadow.’ His fixation won’t extend to courtesy, though, and he taunts a Native American blackjack opponent with the racist refrain, ‘Don’t chase me, Chief.’; the delivery here suggesting the line is designed as snappy dialogue, rather than as an indicator of Tanner’s racism.

Far be it for decency and the bonds of police fraternity to get in the way of Ranger Hamilton’s penchant for racist humour, either. Sheridan’s screenplay attempts to expiate the sins of Bridges’ character – his constant, unfunny allusions to Parker’s Mexican-Comanche heritage – with heavy hints that the bigotry masks a deep, unspoken affection between the two. But, paradoxically, it is plain to see that Parker is hurt by Hamilton’s ‘jokes’ – so why does he keep making them, if the two are really friends? Sheridan’s writing lingers too fleetingly on Parker’s unease – and, crucially, his inability to seek redress for it, since Hamilton is his boss – making for a somewhat weak, half-hearted gesture from Hell at rebuking prejudice. The senior ranger’s outpouring of emotion at Parker’s later death is meant as a gesture to his fallen comrade’s humanity – the humanity Hamilton never lost the pleasure in disrespecting whilst he was alive – but it is an empty one. There is no remorse in his grief. There are hints at the difficulties men can face articulating friendship here – an attempt which would be noble, did it not compromise the indictment of Hamilton’s prejudice.

Hell or High Water struggles with saying something meaningful about its characters’ racism, and outright fails at saying anything true or interesting about women. It finds greater success as a living autopsy of the forgotten West, and as a love letter to the true grit of its people, making it a distinctly American film. Its intercourse with the gender turn and populist treatise on capitalism will find favour with viewers worldwide, though – and likely even with some women in its audience, many of whom are long-used to tuning out misogynistic subtexts to feel the brief bliss cinema provides.

Blending outstanding (male) characterisation with incisive, bottom-up political commentary, Hell or High Water is a personal best for director Mackenzie, screenwriter Sheridan and lead Pine.

#hell or high water #film review #david mackenzie #taylor sheridan