Chicks in Action Flicks, Part II

A GUEST POST BY ALEXANDRA BRADLEY

Part II: Why Ellen Ripley is the cat’s pajamas, and other stories

 

 

So…“Ripley, you say?  Tell me more.”  (See Part I here.)

 

Well, aside from the obvious factor that Alien is one of the most respected movies ever made and most of the other aforementioned action/sci-fi films featuring female action protagonists are….not….there are subtle but key differences between the leading ladies that set them miles apart from one another in terms of how much I consider them positive steps forward for women.  And for my money, the most pervasive of these is something rather invisible to the viewer:  the fact that Ellen Ripley was never supposed to be an “Ellen” at all, but rather a man.

 

Now I know that sounds like a reason for me to be the opposite of excited about this character, and I understand why you would think that.  After all, why wouldn’t I want a character designed from the ground up to be a woman who still stood on her own?  Well, that would be excellent, and if I find a great example, I will absolutely let you know.  But especially considering that this is an older movie [Ahem.  ---BOF], the filmmakers’ ability to remain true to the character even after turning the he into a she is quite remarkable.

 

The reason why this gender swap actually makes her such a great female role model is not that she becomes an overly masculine character (because that is obnoxious in a totally different way), but that her gender does not matter at all.  Pretty much every detail about her character is gender neutral, and so she is stripped of all the stereotypes and overcompensations we heap on any character written explicitly to be a badass female action hero.  She does not need to go to great lengths to prove herself as a badass, she does not need to be dressed in a skin-tight leather suit to show how “fit” she is, she does not need to be seduced by the man she trusts so much only to find out that he’s working for the enemy…no, none of these things is necessary because she just IS who she is.

 

As a matter of fact, the examples I extracted of why Ripley is such a great feminist character come just as much from what she does not do or have done to her as from what does happen. Or, to put it in a different light, it is in how much she is not really any different from any other crew member on board the Nostromo.

 

Walking into the film, there is not even any real reason to believe she is going to be the one who survives.  We all consider that a given now, but at the time it came out, I would bet that it was kind of a surprise.  As a relative unknown, she isn’t first-billed.  Meanwhile, Tom Skerritt is the captain and the first-billed, so, had I not been about 7 years old when I first saw it and incapable of making those kinds of logical assessments, I would have put my money on him.  She’s also not the only female on board, so she does not stick out as an anomaly and her presence as a female does not require any explanation.  We immediately accept it as fact that in the 22^nd century, women are considered pretty capable to do these kinds of jobs, just as men are.  As a matter of fact, everyone in the crew is pretty much just in it for themselves; they are characters written for the sake of being characters, and not for the sake of making some big statement about the coexistence of whites and blacks, males and females, lions and sheep….you get the picture.  Add in the fact that most of the actors are also much older than your average sci-fi/action hero, and you get a pretty perfect formula for realistic characters instead of idiotic young hot-shots driving us all crazy.  But I digress…forgive me; I just love this film so much.

 

There are so many examples of things that they could have done wrong with this character but never did that it is hard for me to list them all.  Yet I must try, so here are just a few:  first and foremost, she is not just dumb, sensitive, and emotionally fragile every time something goes wrong.  In fact, she fights back against her colleagues when they want to bring Kane back on the ship in complete disregard of her very valid concerns about contamination and the unknown.  She is not just callous about it, as it’s never an easy call to insist upon leaving a crew member behind, but she is practical, rational, and, yes, struggling a bit with the decision.

 

She is also respected and taken seriously by the majority of her colleagues, or at least to the degree that any of them take one another seriously.  She has legitimate professional conversations and opinions that are taken into consideration just like anyone else’s.  This may seem like a small thing, but subtle does not equal unimportant.  This is also reflected in a different way later on when Ash starts to have his meltdown.  The filmmakers are not at all shy about letting a female character get beaten up, which is a pretty bold decision.  Again, she is treated as an equal member of the crew, right down to how much she is punched in the face when someone gets out of control.

 

Another thing that I feel very adamantly about is that badass female characters are still realistic, and this is another example of something they did not mess up with Ripley.  She gets scared and nervous.  Everyone on the entire ship gets scared and nervous (except for Ash but, well, you know…).  There is no reason for her just to melt down in tears every time something happens, nor is there any reason for her to be verging on sociopathic in her inability to show empathy or emotion.  She displays the perfect balance for any action hero—male or female—between anxiety and strength.  And yes, that does mean she loses it a few times (such as when she is speaking to Mother and finally hears the ship say that the crew is viewed as expendable).  Wouldn’t you?  I know I would, and I know most men would, too.

 

And finally, perhaps my favorite way in which they did not ruin Ripley was by resisting the urge to make her a hyper-sexualized character or hyper-feminine character visually.  There is basically nothing sexy about how they presented this character—she’s dressed in one of the ugliest uniforms ever, covered in true grit for most of the movie, and gets sweaty and gross like any real person would.  Yet that’s not to say that Ripley is not still sexy to some (most?) people, because a line of fan boys (and girls) that could probably wrap around the Earth a few times would rightfully argue that point with me…and I would agree with them.  The point is that there is simply no concerted effort to build up her sexual appeal; she just is an attractive woman, and the fact that she gets out there and gets the job done with such competence probably doesn’t hurt.

 

And yes, she is in her underwear (gasp!) at several points during the film, and sometimes for a substantial amount of time.  But I would be more annoyed if she wasn’t.  It is established right from the get-go that they all go into hyper-sleep in their skivvies.  So why would she be any different just because she’s a female?  Even the final scene of the film in the escape pod is perfectly reasonable considering the circumstances and the flow of the film.  We are supposed to be calming down with her and becoming vulnerable with her before the final blowout.  We would feel off, as an audience, if she was fully dressed…all by herself in an escape pod…about to go into hyper-sleep.  It just wouldn’t make any sense, and we would immediately know (as a first-time audience) that the show wasn’t over.  I have no problem with putting a female character in her skivvies for the greater purpose of the film—only when it’s gratuitous do we have an issue.

 

Now, to get back to reality for a second:  did they actually go out of their way to make this character an amazing feminist role model?  Hell no.  They made the decision to cast Ripley as a female because they wanted to break up the male-dominated genre and bring in more viewers, which means selling more tickets and, you guessed it, making more money.  But, once again, that is exactly how her character became so great.  It seems to be in the act of deliberately making a character female that we run into trouble, and so having it be little more than an afterthought is actually the perfect scenario.  Gender bias never really came into play until later on in the series, when the character had already been largely developed.

 

On that note, you can catch a glimpse of what might have been when you look at the writing of the character Lambert, whom I consider a much more traditionally “female” character.  She’s still pretty great, because this is still an excellent movie in every other respect in addition to Ripley, but she meets your expectations of a female character in an otherwise masculine world.  She doesn’t do a whole lot in comparison to everyone else to help get rid of the alien, gets extremely emotional at various points in the film, wants just to leave rather than fight it, and becomes paralyzed and hysterical with fear when the alien shows up at the end.  Now, that’s not to say that those aren’t very realistic things that some people would absolutely do in response to such a situation.  However, had she been the only female on board (as she originally was supposed to be), it would have been a really obviously gendered choice to have her be the only one who does all of those things.  Let’s be frank:  in real life, women are not the only people to behave like that, and a large proportion of women would not behave like that either.  Plus, I have read that, apparently, Veronica Cartwright rather agreed with my analysis of her character, though she did ultimately take the part because they talked her into it, so I can’t be that far off.  [And, that said, performed her high-strung role brilliantly.  –BOF]

 

This ability to conserve the purest form of the character rather than allowing her to fall into either heavily gendered direction is thanks in large part to the deft hand of Ridley Scott’s direction and the rest of the behind-the-scenes folks responsible for the original Alien film, as unfortunately we progressively lose this element of Ripley’s character as the series goes on.  But that’s another story for another day.  For now, suffice to say that this is my rationale for believing that Ellen Ripley is the greatest female action hero of all time.  Agree or disagree with me as you will, because this is just one woman’s opinion, but I hope that my analysis and opinion has been informative or eye-opening for at least some of you, and that you may go forth to new action/sci-fi films with a bright, shiny new perspective on female characters in tow.

 

If you like what you see here, look for my next post on Daddy BOF’s site in the near (but not too near) future, this time looking at the next stage of Ripley’s progression in Part III: Where Alexandra laments the immense popularity of Aliens.

The Dreyfus Case

My friend Tom, who hosts our insufficiently frequent Movie Nights, has a legendary antipathy for the work of writer-director Blake Edwards, but while no big fan myself, I always make an exception for his first four Pink Panther films. I mention them today because for 30 years, the steadily deteriorating series gave Czech-born, British-based actor Herbert Lom, who passed away in his sleep on September 27 at the venerable age of 95, a rare chance to show his comedic side as Charles Dreyfus, the long-suffering and increasingly deranged superior of Inspector Jacques Clouseau (Peter Sellers). Like Kato (Burt Kwouk), Clouseau’s seemingly indestructible manservant, Dreyfus was one of the supporting characters introduced in the second entry, A Shot in the Dark (1964), which was written by Edwards and sometime collaborator William Peter Blatty (yes, that one).

Lom starred in the original London production of The King and I in 1953, and appeared with Sellers and Alec Guinness in the classic Ealing comedy The Ladykillers (1955); his film credits also include the original Night and the City (1950), Fire Down Below (1957), Spartacus (1960), and El Cid (1961). Hell Drivers (1957) featured the actors later known for portraying agents James Bond (Sean Connery), John Drake (Patrick McGoohan), and Illya Kuryakin (David McCallum), while I Accuse! (1958) was an account of the real-life Dreyfus Case directed by its star, José Ferrer, and scripted by the late Gore Vidal. But in later years, Lom was increasingly typecast in genre movies, e.g., Journey to the Far Side of the Sun (1969), the infamous Mark of the Devil (1970), Murders in the Rue Morgue (1971), Asylum (1972), —And Now the Screaming Starts! (1973), The Dead Zone (1983).

From Bang! Bang! You’re Dead! (1966) to Masque of the Red Death (1989), Lom made a dozen films with writer-producer Harry Alan Towers, often featuring the latter’s wife and producing partner, then known as Maria Rohm. Most notable were Jesus Franco’s 99 Women (1969) and Count Dracula (1970), two versions of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians (1974 and ’89), and adaptations of Oscar Wilde (Dorian Gray, 1970) and Alistair MacLean (River of Death, 1989). Count Dracula added Professor Van Helsing to Lom’s literary and historical roles: Napoleon (The Young Mr. Pitt, 1942 and War and Peace, 1956), Herod Antipas (The Big Fisherman, 1959), Captain Nemo (Mysterious Island, 1961), The Phantom of the Opera (1962), Simon Legree (Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 1965), General Huerta (Villa Rides, 1968), and the apostle Barnabas (Peter and Paul, 1981).

“Herbert’s death really affected me,” Maria told me. “I liked him very, very much. I loved him in all his roles, he had a great screen presence, and he was a true gentleman of the old school. We used to talk for hours about the world, aristocracy, and the terrors of WWII, which had affected him so sadly. When Herbert went to London at the beginning of the war [fleeing the Nazis], he took his then girlfriend with him, whose papers were not in order, and she was sent back and died. I don’t have any anecdotes as Herbert was not a man of antics. Even in Isfahan [where the ’74 Indians was shot at the remote Shah Abbas Hotel in the Iranian desert], where all kinds of trouble went down, Herbert always managed to keep out of any unpleasantness. He was so very proper and genteel, cultured and most enjoyable to be around. He had studied philosophy before he left for London.”

Hat Trick

Lord knows, I don’t have time to do this justice tonight, but the way things are going lately, I’d rather get at least a provisional word out while it’s fresh in my mind, and then build on that later if and when the opportunity arises.  I’ve just become aware of a wonderful blog, Tipping My Fedora, whose author, Sergio, describes it as “Enjoying mystery, crime and suspense in all media,” which—needless to say—I do, too.  I became aware of it in the nicest possible way when Sergio, who was reviewing the early Hammer film Wings of Danger, was kind enough to direct his readers to my series of posts on the late, great Elleston Trevor, who co-wrote the novel upon which the film was based.

Now, I appreciate a good plug as much as the next guy, but when I started to dip into the blog, I discovered that we have an astonishing array of interests in common, not least of which is a certain Mr. Matheson, who seems to be quite ubiquitous on Sergio’s site.  Just looking through his most recent posts, I see such familiar names and topics as Agatha Christie, Terence Fisher, Quiller, Dying Room Only, Fredric Brown, Sidney Lumet, Robert Culp, Vertigo, Evan Hunter, The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, Ray Bradbury, John Frankenheimer, No Way Out, James Bond…well, that’s plenty.  On top of that, he’s a big fan of John Dickson Carr, whose Dr. Gideon Fell mysteries I have loved since I was a kid, so start clicking!

And, speaking of plugs, check out my main man Gilbert Colon’s awesome piece on Person of Interest and the Dark Knight Trilogy at SF Signal.

Up next, when time permits, some thoughts on the passing of Herbert Lom.

Retro Rocket

I’ll have more to say when I’m holding a contributor’s copy in my hot little hands, but in the meantime, if this news flash from Cinema Retro doesn’t send you zooming like a rocket for your wallet, checkbook, or credit card, then you are no true fan of the self-appointed multi-media legend that is Matthew R. Bradley.  There have been issues of Filmfax and Outre in which my story was featured on the cover, but I don’t remember ever seeing my name emblazoned on one before, which I think I would.  Plus I have the honor of sharing cover space with Frenzy, Deliverance (which means Fred may even buy it), and Gene Hackman—and whose article did they choose to illustrate, with that wild shot of Big Don Pleasence as Blofeld?

In the immortal words of Felix Unger, “This is it—this is the big one!”

It’s Always About Mimi

I’m reading an excellent book by my Marvel University colleague Jack Seabrook entitled Martians and Misplaced Clues: The Life & Work of Fredric Brown (1993), despite the fact that I am as yet familiar with Brown’s work only through the occasional adaptation; his story “Arena” (Astounding Science Fiction, June 1944) was the basis for both the Star Trek episode of the same name and, arguably, the Outer Limits entry “Fun and Games.” Many of his mystery stories also appeared on television, most notably as episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents (“The Cream of the Jest,” “The Night the World Ended,” “The Dangerous People,” “Human Interest Story“) and Thriller (“Knock Three-One-Two“). Relatively few of Brown’s thirty novels have been filmed, but one exception is The Screaming Mimi (1949), adapted in 1958 by future “Fun and Games” director Gerd Oswald and largely undistinguished horror/SF screenwriter Robert Blees.

One of the reasons I own a copy of the novel, and will one day do a comparison between page and screen, is that it is often said to be the uncredited basis for Dario Argento’s directorial debut, the seminal giallo film The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1970). I’m not a particular fan of either Argento or gialli, but I certainly recognize their importance in the horror genre, and have long noted (not that I’m the only one to do so) that although Argento gets the lion’s share of the credit for popularizing the subgenre, he was in many ways simply following and elaborating upon the template established by Mario Bava—of whom I AM particular fan—in films like The Girl Who Knew Too Much (aka The Evil Eye, 1962) and Blood and Black Lace (1964). What’s especially intriguing in this case is that The Girl Who Knew Too Much, The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, and many of Argento’s subsequent films all rely on a plot mechanism that Brown used in The Screaming Mimi.

Several of Brown’s mysteries hinge upon what Jack calls “the misplaced clue,” in which the “investigation centers on the vicinity of the murders until a point late in the novel, where [the protagonist] must travel out of town or out of state to discover something from the past that provides the missing link needed to solve the puzzle.” In The Screaming Mimi, on the other hand, protagonist Sweeney witnesses the aftermath of an attack on a beautiful blonde dancer by a serial killer known as the Ripper, only to learn later on (without giving away anything for those unfamiliar with the story) that what took place was far different from what he thought he saw. Not only Bird but also Argento’s Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971)—whose hero, like Sweeney, has a friend named “God”—Deep Red (1975), Suspiria (1977), Trauma (1993), and others utilize what might be referred to as “the misinterpreted/misremembered/forgotten clue.”

Jack’s book doesn’t mention the Argento connection, of which I first learned from my original 1990 edition of Fangoria contributor Maitland McDonagh’s since-updated Broken Mirrors/Broken Minds: The Dark Dreams of Dario Argento, autographed by Maitland and Argento himself at a Film Forum appearance. But this essay by David Jacobs from S. Michael Wilson’s 2008 anthology Monster Rally, “Argento’s Big Rip-Off: Stealing Screaming Mimi,” documents it quite damningly; if the Google Books link doesn’t take you right to it, it’s on pages 217-225. The net result, of course, is that Argento—a former screenwriter who denied the aging Brown (1906-1972) proper credit or remuneration for the blatant use of his work—turns out to be even more derivative with his gialli than by merely ripping off Bava or, later (and endlessly), himself.

Small World 9/12/12

When Paul Stuve, my esteemed co-editor on The Richard Matheson Companion (aka The Twilight and Other Zones), was recently contacted by a gentleman seeking information on Matheson’s literary circle, known as the Group, Paul wisely directed him to Christopher Conlon‘s superb Group overview, “Southern California Sorcerers,” and also asked me to weigh in. Lo and behold, said gentleman turned out to be none other than Pierre Comtois, who is—among other things—the author of Marvel Comics in the 1960s and …1970s, recently commended to me by Marvel University ramrod Peter Enfantino. Pierre wanted Group-related material for Fungi, “the Literary Magazine of Fantasy and the Supernatural,” and I was only too happy to oblige with my profiles of Group members George Clayton Johnson, William F. Nolan, and Jerry Sohl…but how bizarre is it to stumble across someone who shares so many of my obsessions?

Publication Alert 8/25/12

As promised, Filmfax has paid tribute to Ray Bradbury by making my career-spanning interview—which originally ran in their late, lamented sister publication, Outré, in 1995—the cover story in the current issue (#131, Summer 2012).  They’ve even borrowed the title and some snippets from my recent post on his passing, “Someone Wonderful This Way Came”; illustrated the piece with numerous behind-the-scenes photos, as well as movie stills and vintage magazine covers; and added a bonus interview with erstwhile managing editor James J.J. Wilson on The Martian Chronicles.  Editor/publisher Michael Stein has generously chosen to run my interview in multiple parts, in order to give Ray the space he deserves, and for you lucky readers, my blather is at a minimum for just that reason.

Thanks, Mike.

Speaking of Ray, if you haven’t done so already, you should check out all the wonderment my esteemed Marvel University colleague, Jack Seabrook, is unleashing on a regular basis over at bare•bones.  Among other things, he’s reviewing the entire canon of Alfred Hitchcock Presents and its hour-long successor, but rather than cover them in a traditional chronological format, as we are at MU, he’s grouping his posts by collaborators (e.g., Robert Bloch, William Shatner), the latest of whom is—you guessed it—Ray.  Since he’s just covered the second of seven Bradbury-related episodes, “And So Died Riabouchinska,” there’s still time for you to get in on the ground floor…even if you’ll have some catching up to do on his Batman coverage with Peter Enfantino.

Thanks, Jack.

A friend and former GoodTimes colleague who once worked for Matheson’s agent kindly sent a copy of “The Science Fiction Issue” of The New Yorker (whose cover dates of June 4 & 11 oddly encompass both my birthday and the day of Ray’s death).  Among the myriad of wonders therein is “Take Me Home,” a warm, wistful essay in which Ray writes about his boyhood in Waukegan, Illinois.  Although it’s not immediately clear whether  it was written specifically for this issue—the late Anthony Burgess’s piece on A Clockwork Orange certainly was not—both the tone and the title suggest that Ray had, in a sense, penned his own epitaph, which is not a bad thing to be able to do, and it should go without saying that nobody could do it more eloquently than he did.

Thanks, Anne.

Finally, on a non-Bradbury-related note, I wanted to express the pride I feel at the strong show of support for Alexandra’s first guest post, in which she has again surpassed even my expectations.

Thanks, honey.