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A Feature That Will Intrigue You! If You Comment!

Do you know what makes me really, really sad, you guys? It is when I cannot respond personally to every single comment on the site, because I love them all. I read them! I care about them! They light up, as the saying goes, my life!

Therefore, it is time for a NEW FEATURE: Comments of the Week! Yes, it is time, my friends: time to honor three (3) comments from last week’s posts. We will do this on Monday, in honor of New Beginnings, and also Monda, the God of Witty and Concise Blog Comments, who I just made up.

Here they are!

From angryyoungwoman, on Triumphs of Unintentionally Feminist Humor:

So how do we create the society portrayed in this film?

I’m thinking now of watching this with the bf and then murmuring “the drone must die” during sex. You know, just to see how he reacts.

From WildlyParenthetical, on Forgetting Sarah Marshall:

The thing that made me angriest about that movie was that that lil speech that Kristen Bell makes (that last one in your post) totally opened up a space for actually looking at how much work women wind up doing in relationships, and the tendency for men to not feel like they have to take care of the relationship at all… and the way that the ‘bitch dumped me’ attempt to blame it all on the woman is usually just an attempt to disavow responsibility… and then the film does the equivalent of sticking its fingers in its ears and going ‘nahnahnahnah, I’m not listening!’. It’s so horrible. And Some Lady is such a weird character: they have nothing in common except feeling sorry for him… and we’re meant to believe that’s a good grounding for a future relationship? Ugh.

From Katherine, on Sexist Beatdown:

I can’t read it, I just can’t! I shall watch the Wicker Man instead. Also, Queen Latifah > hot boss every time. Wait, what if she was the hot boss? Conundrum!

Honor the Commenters of the Week! Praise them! THEY ARE YOUR NEW GODS! Also, leave more comments, please. Because I love them. So very, very much.

I Lost It at the Movies. And by "It," I Mean, "The Ability To Not Know What Zach Galifianakis Looks Like In Skin-Tight Briefs." Also, "My Soul."

Friends, I went to the movies yesterday! I went to see, specifically, a very terrible movie by the name of Observe & Report, about which I wrote a piece, and now I am missing $12, eighty-six minutes of my life, and a piece of my soul, but whatever, if I’m going to write about it, the one thing I want to do is to shut the terrible stupid faces of those who are always yelling that I “HAAAAVEN’T SEEEEEEEN the MOOOOOOOOOVIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES” that I write specifically about not wanting to see.

Anyway! At Observe & Report, I saw the following previews:

1. Jim from The Office is dating that Maya Rudolph lady! He has a beard. They are both very bummed because they are thirty and have not “figured stuff out,” like whether to get married or how to obtain actual paying jobs. Also, Maya Rudolph is pregnant. Also, Jim’s parents, upon whom he relies, are going away, FOREVER, to Belgium. Therefore, they (Jim and Pregnant Maya Rudolph, not the parents) must go on a Cross-Country Journey of Discovery and Fun, and maybe they will ride a scooter while “The Only Living Boy in New York” plays and someone will have an epilepsy helmet and someone else will be killed, by a dishwasher, which is always sad. Probably, right? Because this film has a script BY DAVE EGGERS, yikes.

2. Zach Galifianakis is a total bro who likes to do bro-stuff with his bro-men whilst hanging out in his bro-derpants. (Bro + Underpants = THE JOKES ARE FUNNIER WHEN I EXPLAIN THEM, REALLY.) Bradley Cooper is some douche who is getting married. Andy from The Office is a dude with a girlfriend who thinks his friends are “immature,” and he is like, “yes, they are, I am the token pussy-whipped character, but the twinkle in my eye suggests some WILD TIMES ahead for me, because maybe I yearn to escape your cruel reign of terror, Mommy-Lady.” Anyway they all go to Vegas and have WILD TIMES that they can’t remember because they were SO WASTED and then when they wake up Zach Galifianakis has a baby that he doesn’t know where it came from and Andy from The Office got married to a hot lady (take that, Bad Mommy!) and Bradley Cooper’s wife-to-be calls him and is like, “remember how we are getting married in five hours, maybe you want to do that,” and he literally says the words, “that’s not going to happen.” He has priorities! Priorities relating, of course, to his bros.

3. Adam Sandler is going to die, and then he’s not going to die, so he’s in love with Leslie Mann instead, but she has a husband, but she fights with him. Seth Rogen is there, and he cries when Adam Sandler is dying, and Adam Sandler is like, “please, someone may mistake us for homosexuals,” and then Seth Rogen has intimate whispered conversations with Adam Sandler, while Adam Sandler is in bed, with romantic lighting. This is “Funny People,” the “third” “film” by Judd Apatow, and please note that it is the only Judd Apatow film thus far in this set of previews, which is funny, because he basically could have made any one of them.

4. Ryan Reynolds has a job! He is a personal assistant! To, get this, A LADY! She is Sandra Bullock, and she is very harsh and severe and wears her hair scraped back into a weird high ponytail and is suuuuuuuch a biiiiiiiiiiiitch to Ryan Reynolds. But, wait! She is also Canadian, and has to marry Ryan Reynolds so that she can stay “employed” and get that silly “raise” that women with careers care about so much more than babies or keeping a man satisfied. I have heard that all those bitches need is a good deep dicking and/or the lawful bonds of marriage, in order to soften up and learn the meaning of love, which is: putting up with bullshit from losers, as per The Movies. This movie would seem to be a scientific demonstration of that premise! Good news for everyone.

5. Oh, good, more Apatow! Jack Black is a caveman. Michael Cera is also a caveman. Michael Cera continues to be legitimately funny, which is really cramping my style, because considering the fact that he has (a) made some really bad movies, and (b) played the same dude in all of them, I don’t want to like him any more, yet I do. Fortunately, there is that one documentary about how he fell in love with Charlyne Yi and also Seth Rogen was there and gave them meaningful advice, which just looks so cute and sweet and quirky and woozums and zurbies and oh my god, it is the Tweemageddon, RUNNNNNNN, so I get the feeling I won’t have to like him any more after that. Anyway, Jack Black and Michael Cera are cavemen, except when they are in Ancient Rome for some reason, and at some point, a Caveman Dad says to Jack Black, “you may lie with my daughter, Lilith,” and to Michael Cera, “and you may lie with my son, Seth.” It is funny, because GAY, and also, if you think about it, RAPE, and with that, it is time for our showing of Observe & Report!

FINAL SCORES:
Number of Dudes Expressing Anxieties/Avoidance Issues re: Marriage/Commitment: 4
Number of Dudes Who Almost Certainly End Up Married Anyway: 4
Number of Dudes with Babies/Fetuses They Don’t Know How to Deal With: 2
Number of Dudes Realizing the Value of Close Bro-Ships: 7
Judd Apatow Productions: 2
Gay Jokes: 2, both in Judd Apatow Productions
Number of Dudes Who Get Zany and Represent the Boyish Life Force which Resists/Is Crushed By/Can Never Really Be Crushed By the Adult/Female World: ALL OF THEM, are you kidding me?

Look, I know I am fixated on the movies lately, and you are like, “hey, cool it, Siskel and/or Ebert!” Someday – someday soon – I will address matters of consequence, I swear. However, it is imperative to note that I am not even kidding any more with this man-child business. It is everywhere. It is like the zombie virus in 28 Days Later that tormented Cillian Murphy, except if Cillian Murphy succumbed to it and was like, “it is a matter of great personal pride for me that I have filmed a movie in which I am in my underpants and eating Fruit Loops throughout,” except that would never happen, because Cillian Murphy is actually kind of attractive, so it would have to be Zach Galifianakis to make sure the ladies have NO. FUN. AT ALL with the underpantsed scenes. We are living in the Bropocalypse. IT IS THE END OF DAYS. Two riders are approaching, and I’m pretty sure one of them is Seth Rogen, because the wind began to APATOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. And it smells like ganj.

Sexist Beatdown: Lynn Crosbie Don’t Make Sense, But She’s Got Her Reasons Edition

Good morning! It’s a beautiful, yet sad day, my friends: a day for the funeral of feminism in pop culture, with the eulogy being delivered by the delightfully nonsensical Lynn Crosbie of the Globe and Mail!
Today, the mournful Amanda Hess of the Sexist and the woeful me of Tiger Beatdown shall discuss her pronouncements! For, as in the wake of any death, we have questions, such as: WHAT THE HELL IS LYNN CROSBIE EVEN TALKING ABOUT OH MY GOD? Why is there so much time and attention defined to defining the indefinable nature of Samoan people? What, exactly, is feminist about Obsessed? And will we, the lady-people of the world, ever have a piece of televisual entertainment that addresses our concerns as aptly as the theme song to Two and a Half Men?

ILLUSTRATION: The future of vaguely offensive feminism in pop culture. Please press play, just so that you can hear the falsetto, and also Ben Lee insisting that you must “hear him roar.”

AMANDA: “a woman is anyone who once was a tiny gamete with XX sex chromosomes instead of X plus Y.” oh boy. we’re getting into really enlightened conversation here.

SADY: oh, yes. apparently, “feminism” is about defining exactly who gets to be or not be a real lady on a profoundly restrictive biological basis! did you know ladies have the “indoor” “plumbing”?

AMANDA: that makes us more sophisticated

SADY: it does, in fact. sophisticated enough to appreciate the excellent sitcom, “two and a half men!”

AMANDA: I like this woman’s style! I could never write a sentence like this: “It is this, the plumbing, not the chromosomes, that define and estrange us from the brothers.” I think this is written in some sort of code. See: lede, “What is a real Samoan?”

SADY: right? in the end, we are told that defining Samoans is USELESS. there IS no such thing as a person of Samoan heritage or citizenship! i guess my question as to what this means for feminism in pop culture – the subject (?) of her article – is, HUH?

AMANDA: wait, is that what we learn? i truly cant tell if the sendoff is a joke: “Next week Your American Idol! Comments?” hmm, yes, I have a comment. umm … get an editor?

SADY: hahaha this seriously reads like someone drank a whole bottle of nyquil and hammered out an article 1.5 seconds before deadline. like, her complaint seems to be that women can’t be defined a certain way although also she can define women but women in pop culture have not been sufficiently indefinable, so, what’s with defining things, Media?

AMANDA: i’m not sure why “Obsessed” will be good for feminism in pop culture but “The Reader” isntt? yeah, she seems to have an aversion to defining anything, like her point, or subjects of sentences

SADY: well, in “Obsessed,” we learn the very important lessons that women are natural energies and also that you should STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN. ENEMIES, not energies. i have been stricken with ill-definedness!

AMANDA: “the very image of a woman so fluid in her possibilities.” as is this essay, which i like to imagine was transcribed from a drunken voicemail

SADY: women are the trees, and the rain, and the wind.

AMANDA: the only thing i can say for sure about women is that they clearly ALWAYS have two XX sex chromosomes!

SADY: allow me to quote to you one of my favorite recent bits of feminism in pop culture, from singer/songwriter ben lee. it is called, “i’m a woman, too.”
AMANDA: haha. great. ok

SADY: It’s true, it’s true
I’m a woman too
I move with the flow of the seasons

I do, I do
Cause I’m a woman too
I don’t make sense but I got my reasons

AMANDA: this whole thing makes me want to bang my head on my keyboard. maybe the results could be published in the globe and mail?

SADY: yes, in womanly fashion. MOVE WITH THE FLOW OF THE SEASONS, my fellow woman. if there is one thing we have learned from ben lee and/or the globe and mail, it is that women make NO SENSE.

AMANDA: hear hear. incidentally, i have a small obsession with two and a half men. because—i’ve never seen it—but i always catch about 2 minutes of it before gossip girl comes on. and it’s always the sweet conclusion, which is usually charlie sheen sitting down on a couch and drinking a beer or something, and the other guy exiting and a laugh track. whatever happened before that may have been crazy interesting, but the end is always the same. it could be the same episode! i have no idea. and then the song comes on that’s like “Men, men, men MEN MEN MEN men men men MEN MEN MEN men men men

SADY: that sounds amazing! why don’t women have a show like this!

AMANDA: pitch it

SADY: LADY LADY LADY: IS SHE SAMOAN? No way of knowing!

AMANDA: i do want to give lynn crosbie one credit here, which is, when I read the word “warmins,” i laughed out loud. i’m still laughing

SADY: yes, a show about how women may change from summer to spring to fall but Warmins are eternal i have a question for you: “What would you rather do: Consider seducing your hot boss in a bathroom stall or watch Queen Latifah being chased by bees?”

AMANDA: that’s a question for the ages.

Triumphs of Unintentionally Feminist Humor! Well, Sort Of!

Today, I learned a terrible thing: in pop culture, feminism is dead! Dead! DEAD, I say! I learned this from Lynn Crosbie, who writes in a real live paper, and about whom you will read more later. (Mystery! Intrigue!) Unfortunately, since feminism in pop culture is DEAD and all, I basically have nothing more to write about, ever. Except… what is that other thing? The thing I talk about all the time, that you are tired of? Oh, yeah: the sexism!

For example: in her obituary for feminism in pop culture, Lynn Crosbie does note one bright spot for feminist film: Obsessed, starring Beyonce, Idris Elba, and that one chick from Heroes. Obsessed, in case you are unaware, is a film which features its two leading ladies both engaged in making the timeless feminist argument that the other should STAY AWAY FROM HER MAN, BITCH, because, as we all know, when YOUR MAN screws someone else it is merely a terrible accident caused by his proximity to a lady who would not STAY AWAY. He cannot be held accountable! I’m not opposed to STAYING AWAY FROM MY MAN, BITCH on principle, but I do not think I am out of line here when I suggest that perhaps the spectacle of two ladies beating the custard out of each other (one is a woman of color! One is white! This makes it all the more delightful!) in order to secure the hot, sexy approval of a dude is not going to automatically bring about the Womyn Sister Queendom in the manner that Lynn Crosbie suggests.

“But, Sady,” you are saying, “why are you such a downer? If I cannot see Obsessed – for truly, I had planned to see it! And I have no other alternatives! And I construct my opinions on no other basis than that of your hastily typed blog posts! – then, truly, there are no entertainment options left in the world for me.”

To you, I say: have you seen Neil LaBute’s The Wicker Man?

Oh, dude. You need to see Neil LaBute’s The Wicker Man. It always strikes me as innately hilarious when people are like, “are you aware that feminists are constitutionally incapable of telling jokes, or laughing at them? This is a true thing I have said,” because I have always operated on the principle that stupid + absurd = funny and misogynists = stupid + absurd. For a demonstration of these advanced mathematics, I recommend that you view Neil LaBute’s The Wicker Man, which is a comedy goldmine! A goldmine of comedy AT NEIL LABUTE’S EXPENSE, that is: truly, the best goldmine of all.

So, Neil LaBute used to be one of those all-too-common guys about whom people asked, “but is he really misogynist? Or is he, perhaps, commenting on misogyny by presenting us with it over and over and over, all the time?” Then he re-made The Wicker Man, and people were like, “oh, well, that answers my question, then!” Truly, it is a fever dream of lady-hatred; it is also one of the most hugely incompetent films ever made, which means that even dudes and ladies who are suckered in or charmed by the sexism of other movies (the “but some women really are bitches” contingency) are likely to look at it and be like, WHOA.

So, in The Wicker Man, also known as Women Terrify Me: The Motion Picture Event, Nicolas Cage, in full-on “I Do Not Even Have To Try; I Am Just This Ridiculous” mode, plays a cop. Some terrible bratty female child throws her doll out the window of a moving car, and then he has to pick it up! Can you believe it? Furthermore, just to make his day worse, while he is retrieving her doll, she and her terrible mother go and get themselves hit by a truck! This is bad for them, but far worse for Nicolas Cage, who now has various flashbacks about women getting hit by trucks that cause him to overact wildly.

While he is in this vulnerable state, he is contacted by an ex-girlfriend. (In the original Wicker Man, the plot of the movie hinged on the idea that the male protagonist was a virgin. This cannot be allowed in Neil LaBute’s version! Nope, Nicolas Cage has totally sexed before – with sexy ladies, for sex purposes! He’s a sexually active dude, all right!) Her daughter is missing, much like that girl from the first scene, who is also “missing,” in that she was hit by a truck, FLASHBACK FLASHBACK FLASHBACK. Nicolas Cage’s ex-girlfriend, who he has because he is totally sexually active, with women, needs his help!

But wait! There’s more! In order to help this woman, he must go to her home, which is located in the Mists of Avalon, er, “Summersisle.” Summersisle is a mysterious and forbidding island where, you will not believe it, all of the people in charge are chicks. I know, right? The psychological terror: it is intense! Some of these chicks are large, and speak in deep voices. Some of these chicks are older than fifty. Some of them do not respond well to Nicolas Cage bursting into their classrooms while they are in session and screaming at them and saying things such as, “I’m a POLICEMAAAAAAAAAN. See my BAAAAAAAAAAAADGE?” Yes, in the terrifying nightmare realm of Summersisle, it is not the badge, but the vadge, that rules!

So, the first half of The Wicker Man is a little slow, seeing as how it is almost entirely composed of women being ominous and/or unimpressed with the fact that Nicolas Cage has a penis. (NOTE: In this movie – and in the mind of LaBute – they are more or less the same thing.) Stay with it – for, as the movie builds to its climax, it gets much harder and faster and louder and makes much sillier faces. Wait, what? ANYWAY: the last twenty minutes of The Wicker Man are the most sublimely, supremely un-self-aware example of Unintentional Comedy at Sexism’s Expense that I have ever seen, composed as they are of Nicolas Cage running around in a a hysterical violent rage and screaming “BITCHES! BITCHESSSSSSSSSSSS” at the top of his voice and oh, fuck it, LET’S GO TO YOUTUBE:

I’m sorry, I need to emphasize something here:

(Note: the YouTube comments on these videos, like all YouTube comments, will depress the shit out of you. This is because some people think that hitting women is inherently funny. They are incorrect. THE FACT THAT NEIL LABUTE THOUGHT HE COULD SERIOUSLY SELL A SCENE OF NICOLAS CAGE GETTING INTO A BEAR SUIT AND PUNCHING WOMEN FOR NO GOOD REASON as a scene of SUSPENSE AND TERROR because he is AFRAID OF WOMEN AND ANGRY ABOUT THAT is funny. For the rest, chalk it up to the fact that sexists have no sense of humor.)

Anyway, the Monstrous Regiment of Women finally, after much delay, reveal their master plan, which is: to accomplish the Most Ridiculous Movie Death Scene of All Time. It involves THE BEEEEEEEEES, THE BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS, which are a metaphor for people having vaginas, and also something getting BURRRNNNNED, and oh, here you go:

Do you see what happens when you have the right to vote, ladies? Do you see? This is why we can’t have nice things!

Anyway, for a woman of my sort – the sort who thinks that hating women is inherently really stupid, and also enjoys laughing at the failures of others – this movie, which demonstrates the stupidity thereof in a completely blatant and accidental manner, is much needed comic relief! Don’t pay for it, though. Neil LaBute is in need of many things – therapy, a Women’s Studies education, talent – but he does not need your money.

It’s Time for Another Installment of: WHAT KIND OF PRIVILEGE DOES SADY HAVE?

An important feature! Today, we will be focusing on: size privilege!

Friends, I am not commonly defined as a fat* lady. I am also not as thin as I am told I should be. I am, on the scale of Popularly Recognized Normal Person Body Types as Represented by the Apatow Canon (IIIIIIII CANNNNN’T STOPPPPPPPPPP) neither a Rudd nor a Rogen, but somewhere in the Segel-y center.

Of course, I am a lady, whereas these noted stars of film and television and sometimes my nightmares (HELLLLLLLP) are dudes. The reason I am using them as my examples here is that there is no scale of Popularly Recognized Normal Person Body Types as Represented by Currently Successful Female Actresses, because Currently Successful Female Actresses tend to be (a) skinny, or (b) somewhat skinnier. This is true for the same reason it is true that, when Seth Rogen dropped some pounds recently, people were like, “hey, why’d he lose weight for, we are bemused,” whereas when, say, Valerie Bertinelli lost weight, people were like, “amazing! Here is your magazine cover! You are now fit for our eyes to gaze upon you!” It is also the same reason that Seth Rogen has been subject to numerous profiles and reviews and blog commentaries focusing on his unconventional, real-guy sex appeal, whereas when Roseanne posed for an overtly sexual magazine cover, folks were like “OH MY EYYYYYYESSSS MY EYYYYYESSSSS I HAVE BEEN FORCED TO VIEW SOMEONE OF A LARGER SIZE IN A SEXUAL LIGHT I MAY NEVER RECOVER.” It is a very simple reason, my friends. Can you guess what it is? If not, look for the answer key at the end of this quiz!**

So, my question today is, What Kind of Privilege Do I Have? Answer: lots! (Have I also mentioned that I am white, and straight, and middle-class, and cis, and stuff?) Today, however, the Privilege that I am focusing on is thinness, or more accurately, not-fatness.

I am, amazingly, not the first person to recognize the astonishing fact of thin privilege! Normally I come up with everything in a vacuum, but in this case I have been learning about it gradually over the past few months and also thinking about it all day long specifically due to a substantial amount of ladytalk over at Jezebel over the concept.

This means it is time to talk about my own personal privilege, size-wise!

–WARNING: THIS IS A POST IN WHICH A PRIVILEGED PERSON TALKS AND ATTEMPTS TO DISSECT HER EXPERIENCE OF HER OWN PRIVILEGE, BECAUSE, LIKE, WHOA, IT EXISTS. IF SUCH POSTS OFFEND YOUR EYES AND COME OFF AS PAINFULLY NAIVE, YOU MAY NOW AVERT YOUR EYES, AND I WILL NOT BLAME YOU. —

For example, no-one fears becoming me (unless they classify me as a fat lady). In the inevitable girls-having-dinner discussions about what we want to eat vs. what we maybe should eat w/r/t what we’ve been eating lately and how we can improve or “give ourselves a break” in re: what we will be eating now, the unspoken fear of the people involved is not that they will come to look like me (again: unless they think I’m fat). My weight is neutral in terms of my culturally accepted sex appeal: people generally believe that there can be hot girls of my size and non-hot girls of my size, and I don’t expect my weight to be the primary determining factor in whether people find me hot. My attempts to present myself as sexual are not found disgusting and/or comical due to my body shape. People do not determine me to be lazy on sight, although the fact is that I did not get out of bed on Monday except to buy more cigarettes and iced coffee. People also do not determine me to be unhealthy on sight, although the fact is that I did not get out of bed on Monday except to buy more cigarettes and iced coffee.

This is what I can list in ten minutes! There are lots more things: things of which I have been, until recently, shockingly unaware! This is because I am privileged, and therefore have the privilege of not thinking about all this stuff. I’m not constantly told that my body is The Thing That Should Not Be, because I am not fat.

I do, however, know a bit what it is like to be told I should be skinnier. If there is one constant and recurring beauty tip handed to me, an American Lady, it is: be skinnier than you are right now. How skinny are you? Skinnier than that, would be good. I know about freaking out about what I eat. I know about putting off birth control and Paxil and quitting cigarettes because the side effects for all three were THE DREADED WEIGHT GAIN, because apparently my thought process there was, “I have panic attacks and terrible periods and also maybe cancer, but hey, at least I have not gained five pounds, good for me.” I know about being nine years old and complaining to my Mom that my brother ALWAYS ate ALL THE ICE CREAM SANDWICHES before I got EVEN ONE, and being told that my ability to “delay gratification” was a good thing, because I wouldn’t be fat (like her, she thought) when I grew up.

(A word about this: every time my Mom and I go out to eat she offers me half her meal, because she always had a “big lunch” earlier, but I have spent whole days with my Mom where she does this for every meal, and I am coming to terms with the fact that the mythical “big lunch” that always precedes our time together does not exist, she just does not eat an entire plate of food, ever. She doesn’t just delay gratification in the food realm, she seems to actively flee it. It makes me sad.)

Now, a word: in a society where all women everywhere are told to be skinnier be skinnier also be more skinny, the women who are actually, by almost everyone’s standards, objectively very thin are subject to some hurtful commentary on their own bodies. It can be extremely uncool – like, it is not OK to assume a skinny person’s weight is a disease, and it is not OK to assume that a fat person’s weight is a disease, and did you know that many diseases can relate to either skinniness or weight, or even occur in a body regardless of its weight? Seemingly the only socially acceptable reason to ever look at a person and be like, “I believe you to be suffering from a terrible illness, which means you are a bad person, and also I have no evidence” is when you are commenting on that person’s weight, which: in my opinion, ew.

Here are some reasons why this might be: (a) in sexist society, every woman’s body is constantly considered fair grounds for public evaluation, and (b) women’s worth is primarily derived from their bodies, so devaluing a woman’s body is the most common and devastating way to attack her, (c) sometimes people get angry at the folks who are presented to them as the “ideal” rather than the existence of a hierarchy of body-based worth, and (d) no woman ever measures up, it’s divide and fucking conquer, have we not realized that? Let us not play this game. Let us get all ’90s together and, yes, love our bodies.

Let us also recognize and work to eradicate the privileges that adhere to those bodies! Let us acknowledge that not-fatness is indeed sometimes one of those! Like straight frat boys who are constantly encouraged to reaffirm their own maleness and straightness by calling each other “pussy” and “fag” and constantly giving each other feedback on precisely how womanish or gay they are being and whether they have surpassed acceptable levels of said womany/gay behavior, non-fat women (and I know there are dudes who experience fat-shaming, I’ve met those dudes, and care about their problems, but I can only speak most accurately and assuredly to my own ladybusiness) are constantly being fed and feeding each other the Fear of Fat, of becoming fat, of leaving the realm of acceptable bodies and entering the non-privileged world of Fat. The fact that we’re so goddamn worried about losing this privilege would seem to be proof that it exists.

Which makes me feel weird that I had to write a post about realizing that I had it.

Okay! Never mind!

*I am uncomfortable with this term because it is often used as an insult! However my understanding is that it is the preferred one, because, like, others are either outright pathologizing or euphemistic in a way that makes it seem like it’s something to be ashamed of. If I’m totally wrong let me know!

**ANSWER KEY: THE SEXISM, DUH. We would also accept, “Seth Rogen blows.”

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:

I am supposed to be here!

But I am not, I am over here instead.

Go read that!

Forgetting Sarah Marshall: Superemosogynisticexpialadocious. If You Make a Film of It, It’s Really Quite Atrocious!

JASON SEGEL: I’m interested in hearing a woman’s point of view on this. 
RANDOM LADY CHARACTER: Really? 
JASON SEGEL: No. 
– From “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” 
Ha ha, TOO BAD, film and TV star and Forgetting Sarah Marshall screenplay-writer Jason Segel! For the end of the Apatow Marathon is upon us, Forgetting Sarah Marshall has been viewed and is currently accumulating late fees in my DVD player, and it is time for me to deliver my analysis, which is: they are not even trying any more, for real. 
This is not to say that I didn’t laugh. Maybe my standards have been gradually lowered, or maybe it’s just that the hatred and shittiness in this movie are a lot more subtle than they are in, say, Superbad, but the fact is that Jason Segel is, as a performer, a pretty funny guy. He’s got the market cornered on playing creepy losers who just might stalk you. Unfortunately, as a screenwriter, he would seem to be an actual creepy loser who might just actually stalk you: for behold, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, a film explicitly and entirely about why women who don’t agree to be endlessly tolerant and supportive mommy-ladies for the men in their lives should be humiliated and punished. 
Jason Segel plays Peter, a giant Apatovian man-baby whose hobbies include eating industrial-size bowls of sugary kids’ cereal, writing a rock opera about Dracula intended to be performed by puppets, pretending to be Gandalf, and obsessing over his girlfriend Sarah Marshall (a gorgeous TV star, played by gorgeous TV star Kristen Bell, who deserves so much better than this). In a surprise move that no one could possibly anticipate, the woman who is way out of Peter’s league dumps him, so he promptly puts on his crazy pants and goes to town. Crazy Town, that is! Population: Peter. 
Getting dumped sucks. It is unbelievably painful, especially when you are ending a long-term relationship, which is what Peter and Sarah are doing. A comedy about how painful it can be is something to which I am not opposed! It’s also probably really tough to be an emotional or sensitive guy, given that dudes are constantly shit on in patriarchy for being so feminine as to have and express a full range of human emotions. I’d like to see a movie about that, too! Just not this one: for Peter is not merely a sensitive guy experiencing pain, but what my colleagues in the making-up-silly-names-for-sexism industry refer to as an “emosogynist.” 
You know this guy. You’ve met this guy. Once you have met him, you can never again confuse him with an actual, decent, sensitive guy in pain – and I’ve met those guys too, and seriously, you’re all great. The defining factor of emosogyny is not emotion, but what you do with it: specifically, whether you are willing to make the leap from “I have feelings, which can be bad and painful,” or even “a specific woman has hurt my feelings by acting like a dick” – feelings to which everyone has a right! Feelings which I myself have had! And caused! – to “it is the job of women to make sure I never have bad or painful feelings, and they have failed, those bitches.” We’re all familiar with the Sarah Marshall “promotional materials designed to look like notes from your stalker” campaign, I trust – if not, this blog entry, charmingly entitled “Are All Women as Awful as Sarah Marshall,” in which Peter details his adventures with Crazy Drunk Sluts, will clue you in  – and, seriously, if you’ve seen any of that, you’ve seen the first half of this movie. Um, PASS. 
So, anyway, Peter is a sad man-child without a mommy-lady, and he chooses to rectify this situation by stalking his ex-girlfriend all the way to Hawaii, which he knows is her favorite vacation spot, and taking a room in a hotel, which he knows is her favorite place to stay, and HOW HAS NO-ONE EVER FILED A RESTRAINING ORDER ON THIS DUDE, I guess, is what I am asking you – and, surprise! Sarah is there! With her new boyfriend! So he gets to follow her around obnoxiously for most of the movie, YAY.  
He also gets to pick up a lady played by Mila Kunis, who is seriously the most flagrant and obnoxious case of a “Because, Um…?” girl I have ever seen. I can’t even remember her name; she basically doesn’t need one. She’s just some lady, so that is what I will be calling her from now on. 
Some Lady gives Peter a free room because she pities him. Some Lady goes on dates with Peter because she pities him. Some Lady becomes Peter’s girlfriend because, basically, she pities him, and Some Lady consistently just says what Peter wants her to say and does what Peter wants her to do and it is so blatant and ridiculous that I seriously considered the possibility that he was hallucinating her because he had gone 100% around the bend, like the point of the movie would turn out to be that Mila Kunis was Tyler Durden. Here, a sampling of her dialogue: 

SOME LADY: Sarah Marshall’s show sucks, anyway.
PETER: I do the music for that show.
SOME LADY: Oh, well, did I mention that the music for that show totally rocks?

And: 

SOME LADY: I’m not the kind of girl you have to dote on.

Cue montage of Peter having to hold Kristin Bell’s bag at various events! She was much more successful than he was, you see, which made her a bad person. Oh, and: 

SOME LADY: Stop being so sensitive. 

Cue Peter getting to smack her ass during sex! 
And this, which was seriously so fucking ridiculous I actually THREW THINGS AT MY TV SCREEN, so much rage, I am telling you, did I experience: 

PETER: I’m actually working on a rock opera.
SOME LADY: Yeah? What’s your rock opera about?
PETER: Dracula? And, eternal love. You know, I think the two sort of go hand in hand. I had this vision of doing it with puppets.

Ladies and gentleman, guess what her next line is. I will give you a hint: it is a question! You may wish to think of the questions you yourself would ask in this situation, such as: Gosh, it’s about time for me to be heading out, isn’t it? Or, So, do you have any back-up plans for your career? Or, Why would your friends and family be so cruel as to let you continue thinking this was a good idea? Wrong! The question is:

SOME LADY: Why Dracula?

She is, of course, giving him an adorable and sexy look of complete and utter tolerance throughout. Her eyes are fathomless pools of tolerance. She signals red-hot, uninhibited tolerance with every move she makes. She wants to take him home and tolerate the hell out of him. This makes her a Good Woman, as opposed to Sarah Marshall, who is a Bad Woman, as we are shown in a flashback wherein he plays some of this masterwork for her, and, you will not believe it, she thinks a vampire puppet musical about Dracula is a dumb idea.

Some Lady also does this really terrible thing which I have to tell you about, which is to laugh really, really loudly whenever Jason Segel does something we are supposed to find funny or charming, which is especially bizarre and annoying when the jokes fall flat, as they do with greater and greater frequency once the movie hits its stride. Like, there is this scene wherein she “surprises” him with the chance to perform his music in public, because fuck knows she doesn’t have anything better to do than to give the guy she has dated 0.5 times the chance to serenade a bunch of harmless drunks with his as-yet-untested musical vampire puppet bullshit, and he performs the worst fucking song you have ever heard, I think it is supposed to be funny but really it is just Jason Segel singing a terrible song in a terrible stupid Dracula voice, and she laughs like FIVE TIMES during this scene, and then afterwards says, literally says the words, “that is funny.” This woman is a plot device who exists specifically and entirely to show us that we are supposed to like Jason Segel’s character, and 99% of her narrative function could be performed by having cards pop up periodically on screen as in silent movies, like “A Clever Jest!” or “What a Likable Young Fellow!” They could have just had a big neon sign hanging over the screen that periodically flashed the words LAUGHTER or APPLAUSE, and then there would be no reason for Mila Kunis to be in this movie.

Oh but I forgot there is also the scene in which they are standing atop a cliff overlooking an ocean and talking about how entering a new relationship after you’ve broken up with/stalked someone is a lot like jumping into the ocean from a cliff and then she jumps into the ocean from the cliff and then he is really scared and hesitant and unwilling to let go of the cliff because he might get hurt but, you will not believe this, he eventually jumps off the cliff into the ocean and they make out. I think there is some kind of metaphor going on in this scene but it is really complicated and subtle so I don’t quite get it.

So, anyway, Some Lady just exists to reward Peter with the salty blue Pacific between her thighs and/or make Peter seem like less of a creepy jerk and/or provide a Good (endlessly accepting and tolerant and encouraging mommy-lady-type) Woman to make Sarah Marshall seem Bad, and we don’t really have to talk about her besides noting that she does these things, so let’s not any more. The real point of this movie is to humiliate and punish women who break up with or are less than perfectly acquiescent to and tolerant of men, or, more specifically, to punish and humiliate Sarah Marshall.

WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO KRISTEN BELL? I LOVE KRISTEN BELL! KRISTEN BELL IS A FUCKING SUPERHERO OF ACTING. WHY, WHY, WHY? 
Because here’s what happens to Sarah Marshall: she loses her job, and with it, the fact that she is more successful and socially powerful than Peter. She is revealed as a long-time secret cheater, so we know she was always an evil whore. She goes to a dinner where (a) her drunk musician boyfriend tells her he’s cheated on her countless times, that he intends to continue doing so, and that he regards her as no more than a groupie, and (b) her drunk boyfriend and drunk ex laugh about how terrible everything that she’s done with her career has been, and tell that her success is both unearned and unimportant, and that she will probably never succeed at anything else again, and (c) Some Lady tells her she’s vapid and shallow, and then makes out with her ex-boyfriend in front of her expressly and specifically to hurt her feelings. She hears her ex-boyfriend having loud sex through the walls of her room, and she then tries to fuck her own boyfriend (Some Lady is shown as being totally willing to amp up her sex noises when she becomes aware that it is a contest, because there’s nothing a Good Woman likes more than being used to help some guy work out his issues with another lady WHILE HIS PENIS IS INSIDE HER) but Sarah’s boyfriend pushes her away and continues to tell her how terrible she is and how little he cares for her. She is dumped, so her crime of having a relationship with someone other than Peter is justly punished. Peter then makes friends with her newly-ex-boyfriend, and they have a nice little conversation in which she is compared to Hitler and Goebbels. She tells Peter she loves and misses him, and he too pushes her away until he forces her to say the words “I’m sorry,” at which point there comes the truly unforgettable moment in which she tries to suck him off, and he can’t get hard, and he tells her it’s her fault because she is “the goddamn Devil.” And Kristen Bell’s last shot in the movie, as a physically present woman who interacts with the other characters, is simply a shot of her with her hair and makeup wrecked, in her underwear, lying on a bed while a man screams at and about her.

All of this for ending a relationship which, in the one scene where Sarah Marshall comes across as an actual human being, and which Kristen Bell sells so beautifully that I’m convinced she made them add it in, she describes thusly:

It’s not anything you did. You didn’t do anything… It got really hard to keep taking care of you when you stopped taking care of yourself. I tried to get you out of the house. I tried to get you off your little island you loved so much, the couch. You didn’t want to see the light of day… that’s what you don’t get… I tried. You have no idea how hard I tried, Peter. I talked to a therapist. I talked to my mother. I read every book possible. I took love seminars, I took sex seminars. None of it worked. None of it made a difference to you, and I couldn’t drown with you any more. Don’t you dare sit there and tell me I didn’t try.

She is, at this point, sobbing. What a bitch, am I right? 

Sexist Beatdown: Second Prize, a Set of Steak Knives, Third Prize Is You’re Traumatized for Life Edition

Good evening! Welcome to an extremely and regrettably late edition of Sexist Beatdown, starring: Amanda Hess of The Sexist and also, many long hours later, myself!

The lateness of this piece is, sadly, not the only thing that is regrettable: Caitlin Flanagan, the woman we will discuss today, is herself a deeply regrettable lady. Her piece on Alec Baldwin, in which she discusses the (imaginary, please, God) sexual dynamics between the Thomas the Tank Engine star and his daughter: this, too, is regrettable! Finally, the many jokes about psychosexual trauma (which are, in and of themselves, potentially traumatizing: FAIR WARNING) that I made in this piece are no doubt regrettable in the extreme.

Anyway! No time for an illustration today! Let’s proceed!

SADY: hello! who wants to discuss DEEP PSYCHOSEXUAL TRAUMA? Specifically, the psychosexual trauma inflicted on me by Caitlin Flanagan and her latest piece.

AMANDA: sure dude

SADY: I had actually forgotten how deeply weird and wrong Caitlin Flanagan is in the past few years. Back in ’06, her strange psychological issues and/or politics were all the rage. Now she basically has to assert that a famous man wants to sex his daughter in order to get noticed, I guess.

AMANDA: yeah, i’m wondering how much this “book review” about the baldwin family’s psychological problems is actually a concerted effort on flanagan’s part to air her own psychological problems in order to create a cult of personality around herself? it’s too obvious not to be intentional.

SADY: exactly. and flanagan is professionally a provocateur – writing that women should have sex with their hisbands when they don’t want to because it’s their “duty,” writing that working mothers damage their children irreparably with their selfishness, etc. this seems like another Flanagan Launch Party for her new theory, which is: women are basically giant incestuous adolescents, sexually speaking. oh, and divorce -no matter WHAT THE CONTEXT IN WHICH IT OCCURS – will make your child even more incesty, so don’t do it. EVER.

AMANDA: i’d like to indulge flanagan’s presence for a second here. let’s say that (a) alec baldwin is a total hunk, and (b) daughters are immediately sexual replacements for their desexualized mothers (even when their mothers are renowned beauty of film kim basinger)

SADY: sure! let’s say that!

AMANDA: why is divorce bad? then your hunky dad is totally a-vail-able! and he can shower you with all the fancy perfumes flanagan’s mom got or whatever

SADY: this would seem to be true! and yet, unless daddy and mommy are both there to show you the ruins of their faded yet once-torrid sexual passion for each other (which you will, of course, want to spend much time contemplating) you might have fewer chances to flirt with your dad!

AMANDA: i feel so bad for that girl. first, alec baldwin is her dad, and now flanagan seemingly wants to be her, but a version of her that wants to have sex with her dad, alec baldwin. all he did was call her a pig on the phone.

SADY: right? and while that crossed lines, and does seem like verbal abuse, it’s also a thing that I, a person not married to or spawned from a Baldwin/Basinger, feel I have a legitimate right to obsess about. yet flanagan (a) spends a ton of time talking about how abusive baldwin is, (b) furthermore posits the abuse as “almost sexual,” and (c) talks about how hot – and totally universal! – that is at length.

AMANDA: it’s actually kind of awesome. i feel kind of strange that i have to make the point that i’m a woman who doesn’t think her mom is a bitch and doesn’t want to have sex with her dad (or alec baldwin). i guess i’m a boring person to review a book. i kind of like that style: review a book about something fucked up, and try to one-up how fucked up it is. see: linda hirshman!

SADY: which is why i’ll be writing a review of “wetlands” entirely in my own feces at some point. the dad-as-romance thing kind of keys into the whole issue here, which is that flanagan also sees romance-as-dad. women are SUPPOSED to get turned on by guys who are bigger and stronger than they are, and have more authority than they do, in flanagan’s betty draper version of sexuality.

AMANDA: this is why jessica simpson’s marriage turned out so well.

SADY: hahaha. it’s kind of medieval: you will belong to your dad until you belong to your husband, so treat your husband like your dad, and vice versa!

AMANDA: and you will also neglect your children (a broken space heater is still a space heater!) to do so. i can’t really tell if she’s endorsing baldwin’s behavior toward his daughter. i mean she seems to endorse fathers who treat their daughters like girlfriends. i guess that only turns bad when you divorce your real girlfriend and start treating your daughter like your “mistress.” i have so much to learn about parenting.

SADY: i, too, need to learn about parenting. fortunately, i will have plenty of time to read caitlin flanagan’s advice on the issue once my beauty fades. i think she thinks that the only reason baldwin went all Glengarry Glenn Ross on his kid was the divorce. whereas, i submit to you, this could have made him a divorceable man in the first place!

AMANDA: it’s the chicken and the egg, man. we will never know if alec baldwin’s ex-wife drove him to abuse, or whether alec baldwin’s abuse of his wife drove her to divorce him.

SADY: yes, but fortunately it’s not our business: it is the business of noted columnist caitlin flanagan.

AMANDA: ok. i claim her. i will become as obsessed with her as she is obsessed with alec baldwin. i will pen long well-publicized columns insinuating that i want to have sex with her. and maybe her children.

SADY: JOURNALISM! Hurrah!

AMANDA: cheers.

Superbad: Pussy Control

I would do terrible, disgusting things to hook up with [this girl], man. Unforgivable things.
Jonah Hill as “Seth”, in Seth Rogen-penned Sethtastic Apatow/Seth flick Superbad.
OH, MY FUCKING GOD, JONAH HILL’S VOICE. I HATE IT SO MUCH. I mean, sorry to be immature, but: really. High-pitched, nasal, whiny, insistent, raspy-squeaky like a rusty hinge – it’s an instrument of torture, making everything he says instantly unlikable and creepy on the basis of sound alone, even before you process its meaning. Only for you, Reader, would I put myself through one hundred and nineteen minutes of the noise emitted by Jonah Hill’s face. Only for you would I watch Superbad.

I did not even watch the theatrical Superbad! I watched the unrated, extended cut! This cut, of course, reflects the pure and uncompromised vision of the people involved, which could not be articulated in the original version due to the money-hungry studios and their commercial demands: it gives us more insight into the aliens who live in the Abyss and explains what is up with the sandworms and shows us what happens after the Hobbits get back to the Shire and also clears up the whole question of whether Deckard was a replicant. Ha ha, no, not really, it just has more dick jokes in it.

The basic premise of Superbad is that dicks are good and vaginas are bad, but vaginas are useful in that one can put one’s dick in them to achieve orgasm. The movie opens with a very basic statement of this premise: Michael Cera and Jonah Hill are discussing varieties of Internet porn they enjoy, and one young gentleman suggests to the other a site he finds both tasteful and expedient in ensuring orgasmic pleasure. “You don’t see dick going into vagina, though, which is a problem for me,” says the other gentleman – Jonah Hill – in his stupid, terrible, grating voice. “Have you ever seen a vagina by itself?”

He then shakes his head and makes the most disgusted face I had ever seen a human being make up until that point in my life.

Anyway, Seth (Jonah Hill) is very upset about the fact that his friend Evan will be going to a good college in the fall and that he himself will not. Seth would very much like a “girlfriend” that he can dump within the next two months after treating her to lots of terrible sex, because he needs to be good at sex by the time he goes to college. The girl he would like to ineptly fuck is Jules, who is in his home economics class; he demonstrates this by performing a little pantomime act for his friends in which he pretends to do sexual things to her body while she is not aware of it. (Foreshadowing!) Jules is a lovely young lady, but much like the Freak Woman Masturbator in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, she suffers from some kind of tragic nerve damage and lack of peripheral vision that renders her unable to notice someone pretending to lick her ass when that person is directly to the left of her and about three inches away.

Seth’s friend Evan also wants a “girlfriend,” and would specifically like a girl named Becca to be his girlfriend. Seth makes clear that this is a pitiful and disgusting emotion on Evan’s part because he likes this girl as a person and does not like to talk about how she seems skilled at “taking dick.” The dynamic is best summed up in the following dialogue:

SETH: Is this about Becca? Is this about that girl, man?
EVAN: I like her.
SETH: Who cares, man? She’s a FUCKING GIRL!

It is hard to convey the snarling fury and contempt in Jonah Hill’s voice on the words “fucking girl.” In any other movie, it would be gross and I would hate it and/or make jokes about it. In this scene? This particular scene? It is all of that, but I am not laughing, because it is actually scary.

Also scary: the fact that the movie can very clearly be read as a story about attempted date rape. The boys need to get booze for a party at which the girls will be present, so that they can get the girls drunk enough to slip their penises into them. This is initially presented as a normal, non-rapey thing: buy the girls booze as a favor, they’ll appreciate it, people will get drunk and uninhibited, then they’ll screw. I, like pretty much every woman in the universe, have had the experience of engaging in consensual sex while drunk (I have actually had pretty much every human experience, including the act of writing in this very blog, while drunk) so this in and of itself does not pose a problem. However, the equation of booze + appreciation + affection = sex gradually becomes booze = sex, which in turn slips into truly incapacitating amounts of booze = sex, until Evan is protesting that he “respects” Becca too much to fuck her while she is “out of her mind wasted” (it’s “unethical,” he says, which is as close as the movie ever comes to the r-word) and Seth looks him straight in the eyes and says, “I don’t see why you have a problem with this.”

They never actually do put their penises in these women, by the way: Evan turns down a massively wasted Becca, who then calls him a “little bitch,” in an Observe-and-Reportesque moment about how upset women get when you don’t take advantage of them, and Seth forces a kiss on Jules after she refuses to get drunk, whereupon she is as disgusted as anyone unexpectedly kissed by Jonah Hill would have a right to be (like, if Rodney Dangerfield had a baby with David the Gnome: this is the physical appeal of Jonah Hill, I submit to you) and refuses to go further, putting him off for “another time,” at which point he snaps and shouts, “NO! There IS no other time,” and there’s that Highway Chainsaw Killer note in his voice again, and then he abruptly falls over into her face and the woman who refuses to fuck gets a black eye, ha.

Between these two points there are various wacky adventures and dick jokes. Like, there is the whole thing with their friend, Fogell, who changes his name to McLovin and is abducted by two cops at which point it is even more painfully clear than usual that Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg began writing this script as thirteen-year-olds, because – whoa, can you imagine if, like, cops liked to get high and party? That would be crazy! (Ladies and gentleman, please take note that the people who originated this story are, in fact, named “Seth” and “Evan.” This is instructive, both in that it reveals the precise extent of their imaginative powers, and in that Seth was written by and was originally supposed to be played by Rogen, who apparently conceived of this character as a self-portrait, and this is one more example of why you never want to be trapped in an elevator with that guy.) I will not be addressing any of this because it is boring. (For example: “Fogell” can, with a cunning vowel-replacement strategy, be prounounced as “Fag-ell,” and the comic potential of this device is indeed exploited to the full.) I will focus merely on the defining moment of the movie: the scene in which Seth is attacked by a rogue vagina.

So, he’s at this party, right? And this random girl is dancing with him all sexy, right? And she’s drunk, right? So she’s your typical Apatovian Drunk Slut – but how, oh, how to utilize her comic potential? Simple: when she pulls away, Seth discovers that she was on her period, and that her blood is on his pants leg.

Now, you will forgive me for saying this, but I have now watched two separate films about men discussing their various manly bodily functions in great detail, and I feel inclined to share: I have never in my entire life bled that much in the space of a dance. It is an entire Ultra Heavy Flow tampon’s worth of blood, and it’s thick and clotted and sticky in a way that you would notice, were it coming from you. We see that she’s bled on other guys, so she’s been on the rag for a little while, yet it never occurs to her to wear a tampon or a pad or even (based on the amount and texture of blood) underwear beneath her skirt, which makes her a Crazy Drunk Slut, in true Apatow fashion, but also unlike any woman on earth who has ever had a period.

Seth, of course, freaks the fuck out and is more disgusted than I have ever seen a human being and all the men around him are equally disgusted and amused, and Seth yells endlessly about how he’s going to vomit and oh God get it off get the awful terrible menstrual blood that every human being with a uterus has at one point or will at one point shed off of him, and of the movie’s 119 minutes it feels like about 118.75 minutes are spent watching him act like the biggest fucking baby in the entire world about the fact that women menstruate. I mean, you thought Woman Who Is Capable of Masturbating was bad: wait until you meet Woman With a Normal Human Adult Reproductive System.

This, I would submit to you, is the entire point of Superbad: awful non-male women with their awful non-male vaginas, which you maybe need to fuck in order to get off, but which, if left uncontrolled, will touch you and contaminate you with their filth. The entire point of the scene is that this person is female, that she has a body that looks and functions differently than Seth’s male body, and that this makes her monstrous. The movie ends with a scene of Seth and Evan lying next to each other, saying “I love you” to each other several dozen times, and spooning, and a lot of critics have pinpointed this scene as being “sweet.” It’s just another joke about gay being gross and funny, in my opinion, but on the other hand: good for them, I guess. They’ll never love anybody else.

The 40-Year-Old Virgin: Sex Ed

–INTRODUCTION:–
I am writing a piece about Judd Apatow. I am watching major Apatovian releases that I either (a) saw too long ago to remember, or (b) haven’t yet seen.

This is the story of my descent into madness.


The 40-Year-Old Virgin
begins with what, I submit to you, is the perfect Apatovian tableau: a grown man, surrounded by toys. He has movie posters! He has action figures! He has exercise equipment, and instruments, and all sorts of crazy business! He also has a boner, and lacks a vagina to put it in and hence prove his masculinity, and this is the crucial obstacle he must, in this timeless cinematic triumph, overcome.

Fucking makes the man: Andy has a number of male co-workers, including Seth Rogen (sporting a truly pubic-looking beard) who have all accomplished the quintessentially manly act of fucking. We are shown this by the way they swoop in on and battle over customers who have made the vast mistake of having lady bits, and relish anecdotes about the various nameless women who have pleasured their man-parts in ways that maybe a seventh-grader would think were hot or shocking or even vaguely plausible (the ladies’ pleasure is never really addressed: it’s about what they’re willing to do for the dudes, never what they actually like) and/or the donkey shows they were shocked to find depressing. (An economically marginalized sex worker performing an extremely painful and humiliating act for no-doubt-low pay in front of a bunch of privileged white boys? WHO KNEW THIS COULD BE OTHER THAN HOT.)

Andy is far less normal or cool than these dudes, as we are shown by the fact that they believe him to be “a serial killer.” The only dude who is even close to being as universally looked-down-upon as Andy is Dave, played by Paul Rudd, who had a girlfriend he really liked and misses her. I mean: liking a girl? Like, the way you would like a person? Icky. Fortunately, he’s also stalking her and makes kind of a point of calling her a “bitch” and a “whore” on a regular basis, so it is not as if he is a pussy.

(Note: this girlfriend is played by Mindy Kaling. She is severely underutilized – there are, like, three seconds of her in the movie, all amazing – and this, in and of itself, is a crime against humanity.)

Anyway, these dudes are large of heart and spirit and (so they would like to convey) of wang, and are willing to help Andy become a man through the enjoyment of numerous vaginas, or “bitches,” as they are also known. They do this through such commendable and not-at-all-date-rape-training-exercise-like acts as taking him to bars to find drunk women. I must convey to you that it is imperative for these women to be very drunk. The word “drunk” is repeated, in the early seduction-training sequences, often enough to stop being mildly annoying and become truly fucking sinister. It is repeated, friends, in lines such as these:

“Remember, it’s more important that she’s drunk than that she’s hot.”

Super. And:

“When you pick up a drunk woman who’s falling down on the way out of the bar, you should probably drive.”

Ha ha, what an awesome practical tip! For targeting girls to fuck who are drunk past the point of fun and to the point of being vulnerable and/or incapacitated. Which you should do.

These early scenes contain numerous bits of useful information, such as: the existence of a trans woman, who is (as in every Hollywood comedy ever since the beginning of time) a sex worker, is at once disgusting and hilarious. Asian women will smile and giggle and behave subserviently when you scream at them. Black people speak in a wacky manner that differs from the speech of white people, and should a white person attempt the distinctive wacky speech of black people, this will be comical in the extreme. Black people also speak very loudly in response to movies; black women are quite sassy, and black men proud of their large penises. Women who are your employers are hard-asses who probably just want to get laid, and one can say “fuck you” to their faces while remaining employed. “Gay” is an insult, which is useful if one wants to convey one’s distaste of Coldplay. The 40-Year-Old Virgin is full of life lessons for you, Viewer.

But, surprise! We are not supposed to like these guys or to take them seriously! This has been explained to me numerous times by advocates for The 40-Year-Old Virgin; we are made to dislike them by a delicate strategy on the part of the director, which consists of giving them loving, personal attention, and letting us learn about their hopes and dreams, and making sure that they never face any negative consequences for their actions. Fun Fact: most of the people who tell me that we are not supposed to like these guys also specify the scenes of these guys talking as the funniest and most appealing parts of the movie. Here was my favorite scene, for the record, and it takes place between Steve Carrell (Andy) and Seth Rogen (Cal):

ANDY: What if she laughs at me?
CAL: If she laughs at you, punch her in the head.
ANDY: I’m not going to punch her in the head. She’s really sweet.
CAL: No, I mean, punch her in the head emotionally.

I can only hope that this is one of the many scenes that Seth Rogen is reputed to have improvised for the movie. Its quality is so unrehearsed! Its performances, so buoyant! Its endorsement of abuse, so clear!

However, Andy must grow past the adorable and fun and carefree lady-punching society of his friends. He must undergo the quintessential rite of passage for all Apatovian males: finding some ridiculously tolerant mommy-lady to make him grow up.

Steve Carrell, as an actor, is capable of tremendous sweetness. Catherine Keener can do pretty much anything, including bringing the dead back to life like Superman by reversing the orbit of the planet. When her power is combined with that of Steve Carrell, an amazing thing happens: the movie almost stops sucking. You are so captivated by how wonderful they are that you do not notice what is going on, which is: he behaves like a freak, she seems not to notice, she is framed as a motherly type who is willing to delay sex for a ridiculously long time so you know she’s not a slut or anything, and then they have seven thousand separate conversations about how he needs to “grow up” and sell all of his toys or at least take them out of their boxes so that he can Be a Man, but Steve Carell, in these seven thousand conversations, talks about how important it is to keep his toys and did you know you should never take your action figures out of the box? It damages their value. Andy really, really needs to keep his action figures “safe” and untouched, you guys.

PS: THE ACTION FIGURES ARE A METAPHOR. FOR HIS DICK.

Perhaps the defining scene of “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” comes when Steve Carrell and Catherine Keener break up very briefly, and he goes home with a very attractive lady for hook-up purposes. After they go home for hook-up purposes, she acts as if she is looking forward to sex, which of course weirds Steve Carell out because he doesn’t want some vile sex-liking lady to unbox and touch his action figure, and this is all neatly resolved when Andy’s sex-having man-friends literally break into this girl’s house and have a very loud conversation while gazing at her naked self, which she does not notice. They are worried for him, you see, because this girl is very scary and a pervert slut. Here is a sample of their conversation:

CAL: That girl is a freak.
ANDY: You think so? (Nods to woman engaged in perverted sex act just off screen.) …That woman scares the shit out of me, and I want to go home.

The freaky, perverted, terrifying sex act in which this woman is engaged is: masturbating.

Seriously. She is masturbating. With a detachable shower head. It terrifies them all.

Then, once most of them flee the home of the monstrous Woman Who Is Capable of Touching Her Own Privates, Cal (Seth Rogen!) stays behind, and wanders into the bathroom where she is masturbating, and is basically like, “hi, I am in your apartment now without your permission, how about you pleasure me, since you are a whore.” The scene cuts abruptly, and given the fact that we do not see her scream and/or call the police and/or press charges and/or beat him to death with the showerhead, we are pretty clearly meant to presume that a woman capable of such harlotry as masturbating in front of a hook-up who has just asked her what she likes sexually (shit, didn’t you ever see “Mr. Wizard?” That’s a scientific demonstration) will consent to fuck any penis in the world, even if it comes attached to a home invader who is, more or less, sexually assaulting her.

This isn’t some raunchy, uninhibited, too-crude-for-prudes sex comedy. This is a comedy for and about people who are terrified of sex, who don’t seem to have any real, useful sexual experience outside of what they’ve gathered from their boxes of very boring porn, who are basically so entirely clueless about fucking that they fail to realize that female sexual desire is not some repugnant mutation or mark of the Devil. Steve Carrell and Catherine Keener don’t even screw until after they get married. Sex is just that dangerous and bad.

Which brings us to the central lesson I gleaned from the movie: a man may fuck, and fuck, and stay a virgin.