Awhile ago I wrote a bit on Scott Pilgrim and lamented how it performed poorly during its opening weekend after getting sandwiched by Eat, Pray, Love and The Expendables. A few weeks later and things haven’t looked up for the game-love, internet-meme-awesome film that seems to have been released at the wrong time. Some have theorized that the marketing led to the film’s box office failure, that failed to clearly present Scott Pilgrim as a “fighting film” instead of “Michael Cera gets the girl again, and this time we have gamers and asian stuff like anime and hello kitty.” The idea is that at this point in time, Americans are sick of hipsters taking the big screen and want something less nuanced, less subtle, and less slice-of-life. Chuck out shenanigan slinging Juno and in with Stallones and Rambos!–echoed the box office.
I’m not going to reiterate my disappointment that things turned out the way they did for Scott Pilgrim. Instead, I’m going to talk about a current trend in films I’ve seen of late based off trailers that flash on the telly. These days, it seems like a majority of movies echo of ‘80s macho-nacho burly men killing everything in sight as a form of democratic negotiation, or hot teenage girls in tight clothing getting murdered and hacked to death in devilishly gruesome ways. This isn’t Tarantino paying over-the-top, eclectic stylization, or quiet reminiscences about similar social scenarios like in Adventureland – this is about balls out, The Expendables testosterone, Piranha 3D exploitation backlash from the '70s and '80s, the grindhouse days of cinema.
I started noticing the trend in movies back in spring this year after hearing that The A–Team was getting a release this (past) summer; later, I saw the trailer for the upcoming Machete, which looked amazingly B-movie status despite its A-list cast. Then the list of movies started piling up: A Nightmare on Elm Street remake; MacGruber, a full-length adaptation of the SNL sketch that spoofed MacGyver; The Karate Kid, which I thought was a great remake despite its editing flaws; Jackass 3D, which looks amazingly stupid and awesome; Saw 3D, which means this serial is getting classier by the day; Burlesque, which looks like another case of cliche writing and a music video director not understanding how to create a musical montage; and lastly Tron: Legacy, which I need not say anything further.
So what’s going on? Why does it seem like more and more ads that skitter across the screen are starting to sound like echoes of decades before? Theoretically, the digital generation should be at its peak: Kindles are ousting booksellers, Super Smash Brothers Brawl are tournaments, Facebook is getting a movie tribute, YouTube is what America’s Funniest Home Videos wanted to be but never could, having a cell phone that “only” makes a call is archaic, online classes are at a boom, information is just a Google away – whether or not you think this is fantastic or horrendous doesn’t matter except that right here and now, this digital generation – a product of the internet and video games genesis and evolution – is thriving, and vivaciously so.
So why the '80s? Why does it seem that Hollywood studios are busting out penis-envy flicks that, for a time, we all thought were over after Terminator 2 ended, and most definitely when Schwarzenegger called it quits with Hollywood and started politics in the vein of Reagan. And even with Spielberg’s Indiana Jones 4 or Stallone’s reawakening in 2006 and 2008 with Rocky Balboa and Rambo, respectively, it didn’t seem as overwhelmingly in the public eye as 2010 films like his executive produced The Expendables or the more-than-obvious remakes like The A-Team, The Karate Kid and Tron: Legacy. It’s strange, though, putting these films in context with films that were only released a few years previously: Juno is the top of the list, detailing the snark and snips and shenanigans of a slang-slinging teenager with a sharp attitude and a smart personality; closely following Diablo Cody’s uncannily witty screenplay is The 40-year-old Virgin, which essentially began the slew of buddy bromance comedies like The Hangover and Pineapple Express; biting, honest and surprisingly sympathetic portraits of dysfunctional individuals that stray far from the picture perfect household like in Little Miss Sunshine and Up in the Air; or even surprisingly quiet and beautiful films that say the most in their silence such as Lost in Translation and Wall•E. So I’ll ask this again: what’s going on, and why the '80s?
I commented in the Scott Pilgrim article that perhaps current American economics (the recession, for a starter) have invariably driven Hollywood studios to produce less creative, more box office safe® movies to keep themselves afloat, and considering what has been released this past year I’d say this isn’t too bad of a guess. Now to answer the second question (seriously, why the '80s?), I’ve drawn solely from observation alone, and theorize this: the '80s revival gives people a sense of absolutes in a time of uncertainties.
Let’s look at the characteristics of Stallone’s most famous filmography, which are easy to dissect and boil down into one banally simple appeal: definitive masculinity. Absolute power. I got pecks, I got techs. Popping veins. Bulging biceps. Hulk smash kittens. This is Spartan. Etcetera.
Now, in a time where political and social constructions are even less absolute – post-9/11 sentiment is one of secrecies, conspiracies, torture and corruption, and increasing awareness of the LGBT community makes those who worship traditional gender roles in an uncomfortable position – the subconscious of the American moviegoing public invariably desires the absolutes, a torchlight of ideals and ideas that they can strive towards and emulate. This is a time of uncertainty and instability, and the last thing the average American moviegoer wants is a film that portrays a honest, mirror-like depiction of a life they may be all too familiar with, or a life that is unexciting enough to kick-start them from the slump resultant of life’s stressors. This is a time where more than ever in the public eye, movies are escapism as opposed to artistic merit.
This is the sentiment that doomed Scott Pilgrim in the shadow of The Expendables after numerous movies about (less than) average, scrawny adolescents released prior – Superbad, Garden State, (500) Days of Summer, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Knocked Up, Kick-Ass, The Last Kiss, I Love You Man, Shallow Hal, Adventureland, Zombieland – inadvertently saturated the market. I’d argue Scott Pilgrim is the best reflection of the digital generation, but that’s irrelevant to what box office numbers reflect: and in this case, they reflect changing, significant tides that are a result of political and social turmoil happening externally. The public doesn’t want any more Michael Cera’s stealing the hot chick that’s out of his league; they want good old fashioned fist-fighting, blood spitting lip splits that a “real man” has to endure if he ever wants to “earn” his woman. Exploitation films like Machete, Jackass 3D, Saw 3D and Piranha 3D relish on the extreme ends of this sentiment, which I can only assume is the geographical equivalent of Siberia.
Marketing is one aspect – I agree that Scott Pilgrim could have been marketed a bit smarter to reach a larger demographic – but beneath the commercializing aspect there are deeper implications as to what is occurring outside of Hollywood and invariably driving studios’ decisions to green light or shelve screenplays and productions. In this case, these implications are that the American public currently relishes in the nostalgia of Reagan-era eighties, with the awesome neon tights and big hair and definitive gender roles. It’s a complete swing from the middle-grounded, level-headed and easy-going mentality to the action-packed, sweat-brimmed and iron-fisted mentality that I hate for numerous reasons.
So to be absolutely banal: viva el Scott Pilgrim, and screw you The Expendables – I’ve had my share of testosterone-filled idiots spewing out crap like entitlement and birth rights and that lot. I’d rather be a Holden Caulfield and a Juno MacGuff than a John Rambo or a Madonna. And if that makes me a nutcase, then that’s just pure and dandy. After all, the Fool was the only with any sense in his head during King Lear’s mental trip, and if I have to get me some double rainbows or pineappling expression to feel right at home, then that’s just fine by me.
*Pardons for the day-late update: I’ve been moving boxes of books and clothing this past week, and only got settled down yesterday. On a plus side, I’ve got the Wii set up nicely, so now Netflix-ing on a whim isn’t as cumbersome as it used to be.
She was working alone, and visibly weakening with every line. Before the end of the first act the audience could tell as well as the Players that she’d lost her grip, and soon they were all embarrassed for her. She had begun to alternate between false theatrical gestures and a white-knuckled immobility; she was carrying her shoulders high and square, and despite her heavy make-up you could see the warmth of humiliation rising in her face and neck – Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road
Frank and April Wheeler have it all: young, bright, enthusiastic, the world is in their hands. They can do anything, be anything, dream anything – it’s all there, at their fingertips. Frank is brilliant; April is artistic. Together, they could conquer anything they wish to, for at their prime they are nothing short of free and unbounded.
Two years pass.
A lily white house, two charming children, Frank at a desk job, April as a domestic – circumstances are suffocating them, choking them from their once promising dream of a future. Perhaps they married too young, had kids too young, settled down too young: the real answer is never an easy one to guess. But what is true of Yates’ ironic morality play is that it is a brutal and unforgiving portrait of the classic American tragedy – that of suburbia.
The story opens with Frank biting his knuckles hard as he watches April’s skilled performance in The Petrified Forest get dragged down by her amateur co-actors and director: it’s a catastrophe. Frank conjures up ideas to comfort April, thinking of the best words he can offer to deliver his mournful wife from the slump. But he fails – and hard.
They fight: she tells him to stop, he insists further, she insists back, he yells that it’s not his goddamn fault she didn’t become an actress and that she has the nerve to blame it on him – Cut! Stop! Fin! The rabble ends as he stops the car and she drags herself out, unable to look at him as he badgers her with what he believes is true but otherwise isn’t. The match is set, the play is planned, and the tale begins of a man and a woman who lose themselves in the midst of multiple performances they can no longer maintain.
What’s so engrossing about Richard Yates’ story is that it not only addresses the psychological detriment of the American suburban life but also looks deeply into the performances and parts that each person, each character sets out to play in lieu of their watchful neighbors. And it’s these roles that each neighbor who credits into the American dream must eventually accept; if not, they ultimately reject their own investment and lie prey to the philosophical conundrums and pain they must endure in order to reestablish themselves in life.
Our lives are a performance: emotions and thoughts are diluted down into language, words and paper, and the eloquence of which we speak and act them out is left to the interpretation of others regardless of how we may actually feel. Only when the curtain falls, the death knoll tolls so that we are released from such a theatrical life, the life in which we use the shell of our bodies to mime and mimic actions that we hope to convey our truest selves.
Oftentimes our environment dictates what we are able to perform, whether we like it or not. The American suburbia is no different: in fact, in some ways it’s even worse. It’s pure standardization, a white bread mentality that indulges in urban sprawl, manicured streets, consumerist shopping plazas, cookie cutter houses, Stepford wives and commuting-to-work husbands. Worse yet, it is completely devoid of true, vibrantly artistic culture, culture which cannot exist in a environment insists so heavily on sterilizing anything that passes through it. So it’s no surprise that this alluring American dream draws in the gullible, only to crush those who do not abide by its stringent, unforgivably strict set of character roles it expects to be dutifully fulfilled. These prepositional roles are what Frank and April try so very hard to act out notwithstanding their truest natures that so very clash against the suburban siren of Revolutionary Road.
Let’s start with Frank. It’s 1950, he’s worked odd jobs in his youth, is a certified World War II veteran, works a stable desk job, and by all means that’s enough to declare his status as a true man in American society. But he’s a thinker too, a philosopher at best who wants to challenge the status quo; he hates these confinements, relishes in his own pride of individualism, and cherishes his wife’s compliment that he is the “most interesting man she’s ever met.” These two aspects already put Frank at odds with himself: to be accepted as man, he must subscribe to the very society that possesses qualities he finds so distasteful; to be a true thinker, he must completely reject the same society that would procure him the birthright of male superiority. The choice is difficult: for Frank, to think is to be a man, but his definition of manhood is also beginning to be shaped by American society, which discourages the progressive thoughts he tries to act upon.
Then there’s April. She’s classy, intelligent, independent, romantic, and crushed by the role of a perfect suburban mother. For this artist-by-nature to be confined by whitewashed windows, by perfectly laden aprons, by chirpy well-to-do neighbors – it’s completely unnatural, and staggeringly so. But she’s an excellent actress, too, and wants very much, too, to perfectly fulfill the obligation of the stay-at-home wife who awaits her husband everyday from work, pristinely and unfalteringly supportive of his endeavors regardless of mood or whim. This actor quality that defines April, this very quality is what puts her at odds with herself: to be herself, she must not act the part of the housewife, and forsake the pretenses that a suburban woman must act out; but to be a true actress she must bite the bullet, swallow her pride and play whatever roles are required without losing a sense of her true self. Yet the latter fold is that to be a true to herself, the actress April, the free April, she must completely forsake the role of a perfect suburban woman. To say the least, April Wheeler must make a difficult choice as well.
Such are the dilemmas that these two characters must deal for themselves, and together they resonate and clash so frequently that the dissonance and synchrony of their flaring passions and temperaments reveal one thing, and one thing only: they are not happy, and they are trying to save not only themselves but each other from drowning in the sea of suburbia.
Frank loses it first: frustrated at April’s unwillingness to cooperate by his terms, he succumbs to temptation and has an affair with the office secretary, Maureen. Herein is Frank’s first crumbling fall from his own self, driven by no other force except his own pride – in his manhood and his thought. The irony, though, is that if he were a true progressive, he wouldn’t impose his self-righteousness upon April in the first place; that instead he would listen to the subtleties of her body language, instead of placating her with an overbearing pseudo-Freudian psychoanalysis that is far from true or grounded. No, instead Frank begins the freefall from progressivism in lieu of maintaining his masculine status within society, indulging in what is otherwise one of the biggest double-standards to this day: the unspoken acceptability of a husband straying from his wife, while the unspoken reverse is unacceptable. This is his masculine right.
Is he proud of this? Initially, no; it is a great weakness on his part, but it is a deep drive to prove his own manhood that he starts breaking at the very foundation of his original, progressive philosophy. It’s the beginning of a slow, degenerating process that eventually erodes at the very foundation of who Frank Wheeler is.
Back to April: she is suffocating, and through her lonely disillusion an idea springs up – France! Paris je’Taime! The European epicenter of culture! Freedom! This, she believes, is the last chance for her, for Frank, for them to get away from the asphyxiating grasp of suburban America that clearly they cannot conform to without financing their true selves. She’s seen how Frank is beginning to deteriorate – how insensitive he’d been, how he’d yelled at her, how he’d almost hit her! – and she knows that the true Frank, Frank the philosopher, the thinker, the brilliant, will never grow to his full potential if he remains any longer at the company Knox. She’ll do whatever she can to make it happen: secretary job, passports, airplane tickets, moving boxes, selling houses – April Wheeler will make this happen.
But it’s already too late. Frank has already succumbed to the lust of masculine right, and the prospect of moving to Paris frightens him. April to be the income earner, while he finds time to figure out his life – is this possible? Of course, but more pressingly, is this acceptable?
Sadly, the answer is no. While the original Frank would’ve likely embarked immediately on such a prospect, the current Frank – the changing, compromising Frank Wheeler – is in limbo, drawn by his own pride to the allure of celebrated manhood, and to suddenly take off to a society with different standards, different values and be supported by his wife so he can revert back to his default self – no, no this is not possible for Frank Wheeler. He enjoys the flattery of American society, the praise of his superiors at the dull company Knox, the flings with the secretary Maureen: he enjoys it all. No, this Frank Wheeler does not want to let go of his comfort. He cannot forsake it, not even for April.
His saving grace is that April becomes pregnant with their third child, forcing them to call off all their initial moving plans. The days of whimsy in the office are gone, the glee of his temporary existence in the office Knox is now replaced by a big, sighing relief of comfort: he is still in charge, the man of the house, the income bringer, the sole dependent of the pristinely white Wheeler house. He’ll get a promotion, this is certain, but when he realizes April may attempt to perform a self-abortion he flies in a flurry of rage. How dare she! How dare she risk their – no, his comfort! How dare she try to assert such feminine independence when he is the still the man in charge! The nerve of it all – how can she not see what a selfish action it is! It is his child, his bloodline, and yet she still dared to even contemplate early termination! How could she, how could she?! No, Frank Wheeler will not have any of that in household. This is his dominion, and he will have his say.
And so he does, but at a fatal cost: his final assertion in the name of manhood, his final fall from true progressivism destroys April – in heart and soul. She sees now that this is not the Frank she fell in love with, the man who first treated her as his equal; this Frank, this transformed Frank, is a different man, the kind of man that the society she suffocates in celebrates with the vigor of cigars, whiskey, blondes and brunettes. He no longer performs the original Frank, the man of thought and brilliance; he now acts out the acceptable Frank, the man who only believes he is one of thought and brilliance while in reality he is no better or different than his chauvinistic contemporaries. The original Frank is lost, and April is alone to decide for herself what role she will ultimately transcend into – April the wife or April the true.
She chooses April the true, the real April Wheeler, the one who wants to feel something substantial and in passion, more so than the packaged emotions and expectations that the suburban housewife must agree to. And in her desperation she consummates with her neighbor Shep Campbell, a man that she is easily repulsed by but does so anyway because it is a testament to see whether or not she can truly act as freely as before – and yes, she still can. Which leads her to her last and final attempt to assert her female independence in the Wheeler household: she performs a self-inflicted abortion, and ultimately dies from blood loss.
April’s theatrical moment has ceased, the curtains folded, and gone she is from the center stage of her life as we now know it. At the very end, she maintained her true self amidst the ocean of oppressive suburbia, the poise of her essence and existence despite what else others might quip about thereafter. This is her dying grace, her retained dignity.
And what of Frank? Why he’s completely destroyed by April’s final performance: all in an instant he realizes the mistakes he made, the pride of manhood that blinded him from reality, the stupidity of succumbing into mental stagnation – for a moment the original Frank is back in full force, grasping to bring back April into his embrace, to repent for all his inanity and insanity and insufferable ignorance, to move to Paris with her for their hopeful future… but it’s too late.
April, beautiful and romantic and dreamer April, is gone. And with this final realization the real Frank Wheeler dies as well, his performance now an empty shell on the stage of a lifeless theater – the perfect masculine role of American society, devoid of thought, philosophy, hope, or dreams.
There’s an interesting character named John Givings, who befriends the Wheelers before their untimely and ultimate downfall. His mother, Mrs. Helen Givings, is the perfect model of a peppy suburban woman, playing the role with such enthusiasm and vigor and self-righteousness and it’s almost sickening to see how utterly theatrical her socializing is; his father, Mr. Howard Givings, is apathetic, empty of care or thought and only so much inclined to turn on or off his hearing aid when he feels like it, and even then he is only half-listening and half-engaged in what is happening immediately. So for John to clash so vehemently and jarringly against his parents’ model behaviors, that he spits in the face of normality and the expectations of suburban character roles – it’s all a very revealing portrait of someone who is considered mentally sick, unstable and insane by 1950s American standards.
Maybe John really is mentally sick, we may never know. But what we do know is that he doesn’t give a damn about pretenses, social etiquette, or any of the frivolous and frilly nature of human interaction: he is honest, straightforward, unflinching and blunt, unwilling to compromise his behavior into another performance that is otherwise acceptable to most. No, John absolutely refuses this, and for this same reason he is drawn to Frank and April Wheeler, both whom possess John’s rebellious qualities deep down inside. He likes that Frank acknowledges that there is a hopeless emptiness to the American dream, and likes it even more that April is a true female – not a woman, but a female. A unbounded, independence female entity, the equal of a male entity and devoid of social restrictions or circumstance that chain down women into women.
So when he later hears the Frank and April have relinquished their last chance of freedom, John is of course disgusted, and knows immediately that Frank is the weak point: April, as female as she may be, cannot overcome the overbearing male dominance that is accepted by American society, and John understands that very well, though he does not completely ignore her faults either; John shoots his venom in the right direction, right at the core and pride of the compromised Frank Wheeler, right where it hurts and sores the most. John Givings is sickened by Frank’s hypocrisy, letting him know it immediately; and for that he is diagnosed far too unstable by his own mother, thus condemned to a longer life filled with more infrequency of visitations.
John Givings is the classic jester figure of King Lear, the unfaltering consciousness that we wished for Frank, April and everyone to suddenly wake up to and to see as clearly as day. Passionate and logical, John is us – the reader, the viewer, the audience. John is us. Yet ironically he is considered insane by the very setting he occupies, and by extension we are also mad by the suburban standards of Revolutionary Road.
But what is madness? Is it definitive, or is it relative to the societies in which we reside in? Is it so mad to dream of something greater, something better in the scheme of time? Is it so mad to hope for change that one may benefit from? And is it so mad to believe that there is always the possibility of freedom, which one may escape from the chaining confines of the current circumstances?
Herein lies the greatest irony of Revolutionary Road: for if Frank and April Wheeler had stayed true to themselves, they would’ve been deemed mad yet become true revolutionaries. But in mortgaging their hopes and dreams they invariably festered into the stagnant sea of suburbia, betraying not only their best selves but each other while attempting to compromise and choose between their own roles and performances in life; and ultimately, both the real Frank and the real April die all together in the bitter, bitter end.
This is the tragedy of Frank and April Wheeler. This is the tragedy of the American suburban dream. This is Revolutionary Road.
The boundary between reality and fantasy is porous and unstable; everything, including inanimate objects, is alive and responds magically to wishes and fears. There are mysteries and secrets everywhere, as in the lives of children, who are kept in the dark about fundamental realities – sex, death, money, and the whole complex mystery of their parents’ desires and disappointments – Elizabeth Dalton, from the Introduction to Grimm’s Fairy Tales, published 2003 by Barnes & Nobles Classics
Disney is a staple to American cinema. The name itself is a brand, hailing nearly fifty animated theatrical releases with its recent film, The Princess and the Frog, its 49th, and another unveiling this fall, Tangled, its golden 50th.
But these recent films come nowhere near to the dare and darkness of some of the original Disney animated films, the fears evoked so deeply by fairy-, folk- and morality tales. Yes, they began the tradition of integrated musicals into animation that lasted for decades until arguably the turning of the 21st century, but these films – from Snow White to Sleeping Beauty – are in a class of their own, films that will likely stand the test of time because they tap into the subconscious of our childhood that we will never fully understand or ever let go of.
My mother watched the classic Brothers Grimm inspired Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in Vietnam when she was a little girl, and relayed to me how scary the experience was – thrilling, but traumatizing. There was the sudden turn of the forest’s mood – from charming and inviting to mysterious and dangerous in an instant – and the evil Queen, the devilish witch who was something else: vain, proud, selfish, jealous, and most terrifying of all incredibly human. She was something tangible, something we could see happening in real life, and by all means she shook your sense of security that much more. Feasibly, the evil Queen embodied the rage of the maternal figure that as children, we all feared would unleash and unveil amidst her soothing comfort and maternal care – a motif often embodied by evil stepmothers in collected stories of the Brothers Grimm like in Cinderella (interesting enough, the Brothers Grimm edited a lot of the original stories in a second publishing of their collected stories; one of the changes they made was to charge the evil doings of maternal figures to that of stepmothers, for in most of the original stories it was actually the birth mothers that committed such atrocities. However, they felt these details were too shocking and unappealing in the original publishing, and amended such changes in later editions).
We looked to Snow White as the character we wanted to succeed, to rise above the injustice bestowed upon her evil stepmother; her dark hair only made her skin even lighter, a literal embodiment of her own purity and namesake. The friendly dwarfs were, in a sense, an extension of us, the audience: various emotions personified, each dwarf was a supportive beam to dear Snow White as she struggled to make ends meet. These dwarfs set the stage for later DIsney films, in which there is the straight-laced protagonist followed by a group of bubbly side-characters who interject interludes of humor and relief, something the audience wanted during long periods of narratives that are otherwise intense and dramatic. And the Prince – the blessed, angelic Prince – was the savior at the end of the day, the one who could bestow upon the kiss that awaken Snow White from her slumbering nightmare. He was that God-like entity that we wished to sweep down kindly upon the righteous and pious Snow White, the happy ending we believed she so deserved after all such trials of her strength of character. With that kiss, Disney generated the origin of the classic Disney series of fables that we still identify easily today – the classic Princess lore.
Following Snow White immediately was Pinnochio, based on the beloved fairy tale of Florentine writer Carlo Collodi. Arguably, Pinocchio is Disney’s most Christian morality tale to date: a young puppet, brought to life by the God power of the Blue Fairy, embarks on a coming-of-age adventure in which he must distinguish between good and bad before he become a full-fleshed, pure human boy; his only aids for understanding such distinctions are his consciousness, embodied and personified by a chirpy Jiminy Cricket, and his nose – if he lies it will grow longer and longer until he tells the truth, and only then will it stink back to normal size. Symbolically, Pinocchio’s growing nose represents the increasing pressure and weight of accumulated lies on one’s subconsciousness; if the nose becomes long, Pinocchio will lose his balance and fall over, unable to proceed forward in life towards becoming a human boy, symbolic of a barrier on one’s progression towards moral purity.
There is a scene where upon strolling to school – a symbol of enlightenment – Pinocchio is stopped by a wily Fox and Cat, ironically named Honest John and Gideon, who convince him to become an actor (a entity of the theatre, a realm traditionally deemed as one of heathen debauchery) in Stromboli’s puppet show, where he is initially lauded but immediately imprisoned by the greedy puppeteer, an iconic representation of the greedy show producer and entrepreneur. And though Pinocchio escapes his predicament of a life chained to entertainment exploitation, he is tricked once again by Honest John and Gideon to saunter off to an even greater vice, Pleasure Island.
There is one scene in Pleasure Island that is particularly jarring. After the crowd of boys have indulged in their various pleasures – sweets and fats, rides and games, shooting pool, beer drinking and tobacco smoking – the island becomes eerily quiet, foreshadowing to a horrific episode that is disturbing even by today’s standards: Lampwick, Pinocchio’s companion, slowly begins turning into a donkey, and his horror and panic he begins screaming for his mother as a last resort for salvation. But it is too late, and we see his human shadow transform into a donkey, a beast no longer acceptable by human standards and now doomed to work in the salt mines like all the other naughty, sinful boys who have also turned into inarticulate jackasses. Pinocchio escapes this predicament too, but barely and scarred: he is marked by his donkey tail and jutting ears, indicative of the peril one encounters if one gorges for too long on immoral pleasures.
The climax is arguably the most Biblical, alluding greatly to the tale of Jonah and the Whale: it is when Pinocchio goes to rescue his beloved and all-good father, Geppetto, who has been swallowed by the wicked giant whale, Monstro. Monstro represents a turning point in Pinocchio’s character, where he casts aside all selfish desires to pursue a seemingly suicidal but ultimately altruistic quest out of love; and in being swallowed by the beast, he conceits an ingenious plan to escape an untimely death. The pinnacle moment, when Pinocchio saves Geppetto at the cost of his own life, is the ultimate Christian message: a self-sacrificing feat out of pure goodness, a complete disregard for one’s own life, is what draws the Blue Fairy back and grants Pinocchio the ultimate form of pious virtue – human flesh and blood, a sense of human mortality that is forever more.
If Pinocchio is arguably the most Christian fable in the Disney legacy, then Bambi is the most emotionally devastating. Based on the book Bambi, a Life in the Woods by Austrian author Felix Salten, the film plays off one of the greatest fears children could possibly have – maternal loss.
There is a cold objectivism that Death heralds. It abides by no favoritism, and silently collects those whose times have ended. In Bambi, Disney enraptured our hearts and twisted it into a great, big knot at the height of tragedy: Bambi, while feasting with his mother, is forced to flee at his mother’s warning, hearing only a gun shot in the far off distance; when he comes back to find his mother, she is nowhere. Death has kissed her brow and has left Bambi behind, orphaned and alone.
There’s a reason why children cry often at this scene: Bambi is them, still adolescent and unknowing, and the cruel swiftness of Death from an external, uncontrollable factor has left him abandoned and unguided. It’s a terrifying feeling, to feel abandoned; as a child, I used to panic when I didn’t see my mother for long periods of time, feelings of abandonment and helplessness taking over like a icy cancer. Bambi’s famous scene highlights this childhood fear, a cinematic extension and narrative realization of a childhood insecurity that haunts us all in the subconscious. The rest of the film is one of healing and growing up, of finding a path by one’s own accord and establishing oneself in the vast, vast world.
Bambi is a terrific feat in the coming-of-age fable, where he is comforted only by his remaining paternal figure (whom he strives to become, and eventually does after trials of adolescence) and his bubbly friends. Sexual awakening, flirtation, aggression, territorial pride, and a last encounter with the same external, uncontrollable factor that took away his mother and traumatized him as a child, mankind – all of these elements of one’s development are present, and ingeniously narrated by lush colors, fluid animation and by tapping into one of the great fears of childhood. Bambi is a great demonstration of the sacred bond shared between mother and child, and by narrating a tragic loss it echoed how essential such a relationship is, and how psychologically traumatizing it is to the child when the relationship is cut prematurely. Once something is gone, only then do we realize how important that something was, and such is what Bambi narrated so famously.
Last in the line of Disney’s classic and haunting fables is that of Sleeping Beauty, first published by Charles Perrault in Contes de ma Mère l'Oye (Tales of Mother Goose). The Disney adaptation borrowed heavily from Peter Tchaikovsky’s 1890 ballet – in fact, the entire soundtrack is Tchaikovsky’s composition, save the chorus and lyrical addendums in the songs “Skumps” (the Drinking Song) and “Once Upon a Dream” – and the story is more inspired by the German variant collected by the Brothers Grimm, titled Briar Rose.
Disney’s Sleeping Beauty is striking in its explicit and implicit symbolism. On first glance, goodness is embodied by the three colorful fairies – the pink Flora, the green Fauna, and the blue Merryweather – and evil is embodied by the dark purple, black-draped and olive skinned Maleficent. Even their living quarters are drastically different: the fairies take refuge in a inviting and lush, maternal-like forest tree while Maleficent resides in a dark, phallic tower. These are the two competing forces of good and evil, two supernatural and majestical entities that compete for power and authority in the human realm.
What is interesting is the subtle implications of the Brothers Grimm-inspired story, in which a infant Princess Aurora is cursed by the evil Maleficent, who is spiteful for receiving no invitation to Aurora’s christening. Aurora, named after the Roman goddess of dawn, is symbolic of the beginning daylight and its associated goodness and hope; yet instantly she is clashed by her polar opposite entity, Maleficent (translated “evil-doer”) who embodies the evils and gloom of a moonless, pitch black night. Already polar opposite entities clash with the birth of a new dawn, and the fairies come to the Princesses defense after the malevolent entity has placed her wicked curse. In an effort to deter Maleficent’s hex, the fairies take Aurora into refuge and rename her Briar Rose, and the King burns all the spinning wheels in the country.
This is a particularly striking scene because it is allegorical of a paternal figure’s protection of their daughter’s virginity. The spindles of the spinning wheels are representative of temptation and lust, burned in a fiery precaution; additionally, the fairies sweep the Princess into a nunnery-like sanctuary, ironically naming her Briar Rose in lieu of her father’s symbolic actions. That is, the name Briar Rose is one of virginal temptation, a beautiful rose that is desirable but must be clipped (essentially deflowered) in order to be handled by anyone who desires such. It’s interesting that the fairies chose such a name in conjunction with her father’s protective measures, which together (the actions of the King and fairies) could be construed as representing a protective measure for ensuring virginal and sexual purity before his daughter is to be wed to the betrothed Prince Phillip.
Alas, Briar Rose has her first sexual encounter with the charming Prince Phillip, and as they rendezvous in the forest we can see that she is, in a sense, no longer pure: that with her first encounter with a man her romantic fantasies have been realized, and that her sexual desires are not blossoming in full bloom. She is a nymph, now caught up in the worldly affairs of romance and chivalry, and is no longer the adolescent and innocent girl as before. The fairies, upon realizing this, are grateful that it is the day they must return her to her rightful throne to be wed – a symbolic move that again reaffirms their desire to keep the Princess pious and pure until her wedding day. Unfortunately, though, the fairies’ lapse in judgement (after using magic to create presents and a cake for Rose’s birthday) causes Maleficent to see their plan, and she is able to concoct a hypnotizing spell that causes the Princess to prick her finger on one single spinning wheel, upon which the Princess (and subsequently, the Kingdom) falls into a great slumber and not death (thanks to the protective powers of the good fairies).
The spindle is a particular symbol of sexual awakening. In pricking her finger, Rose begins bleeding – the beginning of female menstruation. That she essentially dies from this encounter is equally striking in symbolism: in experiencing premature sexual awakening, Rose is no longer a virginal figure since she has given into the hypnotic temptation of the spinning wheel, influenced by none other than the evil and sinful Maleficent. The ensuing slumber induced by the fairies is a last resort attempt to preserve the Princess’s piousness, a way to ensure that she no longer pursues other (symbolically) sexually driven encounters before she is to be wed.
In a strange way, we could easily construe Maleficent as a defender of feminine independence while the good fairies are defenders of the patriarchal norm. Yes, Maleficent is a wicked entity that wreaks destruction on the kingdom, but consider this: the monarchal system is patriarchal, and in disrupting its order Maleficent is essentially disrupting the patriarchal norm. On the latter fold, the fairies are trying to guide Aurora to wed her betrothed, essentially reestablishing the feminine subservience and adherence to purity before her first real sexual experience with her future husband. In cursing Princess Aurora to die by upon the spindle’s prick, Maleficent is allegorically discouraging the young royal from engaging in the fancies of men’s company; furthermore, she imprisons Prince Phillip, a effort symbolic in hindering any chivalric attempt to arouse the slumbering, virginal Princess. She ridicules the young Prince, essentially breaking norm in asserting her feminine independence above his masculine birthright, psychologically taunting him of his finite existence as a mortal male in the scheme of time. Lastly, there’s the climatic scene where Maleficent covers the kingdom in thorns and transforms herself into a monstrous dragon to defend her domain – it’s incredibly sexual and phallic in symbology.
The thorns, like the spindle, are prickling and hindering in Phillip’s attempts to get to Aurora’s sleeping place, and are an ironic allusion to the virginal namesake of the Princess, Briar Rose: that is, in order to fully appreciate the beauty and sexual appeal of the young woman, Prince Phillip must essentially pluck her, and will only be able to do so when he destroys all the prickling thorns of the path (representative of a flower’s stem) before he encounters the sexual appeal of the blossom; he receives help from the three fairies, whose actions are very symbolic of the patriarchal ideals they conform to – that Aurora should be sexually awakened by none other than her betrothed, the chivalric Phillip. However, when he has nearly cleared away all the inhibiting thorns, Maleficent transforms into the dragon, a last ditch effort to prevent the advent Prince from asserting his patriarchal authority over the sleeping beauty.
This distinctly protective gesture is interesting: while most interpret it as a evil force deterring a noble and heroic effort to restore the natural balance, it must be noted that Maleficent transforms into a mythological creature that has distinctly reptilian qualities – the flickering tongue, the scaled skin, the segmented belly – and, in a sense, is almost androgynous in its physical quality. There is no explicit physical attribute that indicates gender in regards to dragons, and Maleficent’s dragon is just as indistinguishable save its booming, feminine voice. She viciously attacks the patriarchal embodiment of Prince Phillip, a effort that further demonstrates her scathing spite against patriarchal rule as she reaffirms her feminine authority. Only when she is pierced in the heart by the Prince’s sword does she die, a attack from the Prince that is arguably phallic and representative of patriarchal authority; that is, only when Maleficent is directly stricken by the phallic sword (essentially raped) does she die and relinquish her feminine control of the kingdom, and thus order and normalcy of the patriarchal monarch is restored, and everyone lives happily ever after.
Scholars and philosophers have argued about what stories like these are actually representative of, and what values they endorse. Jack Zipe, in his Marxist analysis of the Brothers Grimm and their work, focused on the social and historical context, and the consciousness of the Brothers Grimm themselves; he believed that children were being indoctrinated by bourgeois ideals:
The male hero learns to be active, competitive, handsome, industrious, cunning, acquisitive. His goal is money, power, and a woman (also associated with chattel). His jurisdiction is the open world. His happiness depends on the just use of power. The female hero learns to be passive, obedient, self-sacrificing, hard-working, patient, and straight-laced. Her goal is wealth, jewels, and a man to protect her property rights. Her jurisdiction is the home or castle. Her happiness depends on conformity to patriarchal rule.
– pg. 57 of Zipe’s Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion
Zipe’s pessimistic views of fairy- and folklore contrasts sharply with the more optimistic interpretation of Bruno Bettelheim. Bettelheim was not concerned with the historical or political context, instead focusing on the tales’ timeless and symbolic representations of childhood:
By dealing with universal human problems, particularly those which occupy a child’s mind, these stories speak of his budding ego and encourage its development, while at the same time relieving preconscious and unconscious pressures.
– pg. 6 of Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment
Whatever the Grimms actually intended for interpretation we will never know. But what is true of their collected and likewise authors is that these stories, these fables are striking and classic because of the various explicit and implicit nuances of symbols and implications they open up. The Disney Renaissance of Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King drew from similar roots, but not quite as hauntingly as their predecessors achieved. These are the reasons why the four Disney movies I’ve mentioned – Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Pinocchio, Bambi and Sleeping Beauty – are amazing feats of cinematic storytelling and have remained classic staples in the Disney legacy still to this day.
As some of you may know, Paramount commissioned (in)famous director M. Night Shyamalan to adapt the popular Nickelodian series “Avatar: The Last Airbender” into a movie trilogy. The TV series revolves a fantasical, Hayao Miyazaki-inspired universe that deals with individuals capable of controlling and manipulating (aka “bending”) one or several of the earth’s elements – Earth, Wind, Water, and Fire – and how the main protagonist, Aang, the Last Airbender, is destined to bring back balance when the Fire nation’s imperialistic and war-mongering desires get out of hand. The movie is slated for release July 1st this year, and its production has led to a lot of controversy specifically with regards to its casting.
Though I’m not a particular fan of the show (nor do I dislike it) and am simply neutral overall, I feel that it is necessary to state for several reasons why I will not support this movie for professional, philosophical and personal reasons.
History of American Facepainting
Americans have a long standing history of playing other ethnic minorities, starting as far as 1829 with the play “Metamora.” The play is about an Native American chief who at first befriends White settlers but through politics and a series of betrayals, eventually retaliates against the impending colonists, ultimately dying in a climatically melodramatic scene. The main character, Native American chief Metamora (who happened to be based off real Native American Metacomet, aka King Philip) was portrayed by Edwin Forrest, marking one of the earliest practices of Redface in which White actors played Native American roles.
The humble beginnings of Redface lead up to the infamous time period of popular Blackface in which White actors smeared their faces with black paint and depicted racist driven caricatures of African Americans such as Zip Coon and Jim Crow. These caricatures were depicted in minstrel shows to much popularity, a popularity distinguished by the first movie with a soundtrack, 1927’s “The Jazz Singer” in which Al Jolson portrays a Jewish son who dives into Broadway and the show business via blackface; in fact, the climatic scene involves Jolson putting on his make up, transforming his very Jewish distinction into a character popular to a widely racist White majority.
Eventually, Blackface gave way to other and more subtle racist interjections, a prime example being the 1961 film “West Side Story.” The studio opted to cast Natalie Wood as Maria, the Puerto Rican love interest and female lead. This was blatant Brownface in which White actors were favored over Latin actors, and a further criticism was how Puerto Ricans were depicted in the narrative. In fact, when approached for a possible remake, Ricky Martin downright refused, stating that he could not endorse what he believed to be an ethnocentric depiction of Latin cultural roots; Jennifer Lopez, also approached, disagreed with this sentiment and was enthusiastic about the project’s prospects. Though the basis for the ethnocentricism of “West Side Story” is still up for debate the fact remains that in the original 1961 film, a White actress was favored over a Latina actress, which is enough to argue a blatant Hollywood practice of Brownface.
These three history examples lead up to my foremost argument about Hollywood’s tradition in racebending, exemplified by two examples currently in the spotlight – Disney’s “Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time” and Paramount’s “The Last Airbender."
Racebending in Practice - Modern Edition
Both "Prince of Persia” and “The Last Airbender” are great offenses that demonstrate a longstanding Hollywood tradition of racist undertones: both cast White actors to portray ethnic characters over respective ethnic actors. However, I believe that “The Last Airbender” offends more greatly than “Prince of Persia” for a few more reasons than expected:
“Prince of Persia” at least had some twisted Hollywood marketing sense in that they casted a A-list actor, Jake Gyllenhaal, to portray Prince Dastan; despite the movie being uncannily silly in premise and narrative function (foremost, it’s based off a video game franchise) a well-known actor on the list would invariably pull in the numbers.
As a disclaimer, I do not condone the casting for “Prince of Persia,” but for the record is was already a stupid idea to begin with and starred an actor that many Americans are familiar with. Given how it is a Jerry Bruckheimer production, I’m sure big money was involved with intent of creating another hit like Johnny Depp did for the “Pirates of the Caribbean” franchise, a franchise that was in itself silly and based off a classic Disneyland attraction.
So while “Prince of Persia” offends with its casting of a A-list White actor for marketing reasons, “The Last Airbender” offends even more with its casting of newcomer/lesser known White actors over equivalent Asian actors to portray its starring Asian characters. The marketing reasons attached to famous actors does not apply here; instead, the marketing assumption is that White actors are more “capable” than Asian actors for pulling in viewers, with a possible secondary assumption in their “superiority” in acting abilities. This overarching assumption is the basis for an institutionalized racism innate to Hollywood’s long, long history of ethnic narratives.
Why Paramount Pictures reinforces an Institutionalized Racism
Internalized racism is how one personally feels about race and its meaning, though they may not necessarily act out on these underlying and internalized assumptions it most definitely affects them at the subconscious level (eg. “It had occurred to Pecola some time ago that if her eyes, those eyes that held the pictures, and knew the sights-if those eyes of hers were different, that is to say, beautiful, she herself would be different.” – Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye).
Personally-mediated racism maintains social-structural barriers, the result of assumptions held by people or a community (eg. “This town was so much better before those goddamn ___ moved in. It’s their fault the town’s economy has gone down so much”).
Lastly, institutionalized racism is racism at the highest infrastructural level, in which policy is dictated by racial assumptions and discrimination (eg. South Africa’s long history of Apartheid in which black South Africans were politically and legally segregated from whites, spearheaded by the South African Nationalist Party from 1948 to 1994).
Herein this last level of racism lies Paramount Studio’s greatest offense of reinforcing institutionalized racism within the Hollywood business.
By openly preferring Caucasian actors over Asian actors in an open casting call, Paramount demonstrated their innate racist assumptions – that a no name White actor was more capable of increasing box office numbers and (perhaps) “acting” than an equivalent Asian actor regardless of the Eastern-based characters in the series. Additionally, by casting Asian actors as secondary or supporting characters, Paramount clearly wished to create an “authentically diverse” universe, one that is distinctly Eastern and non-Western in its roots.
This assumption is wrong, unfounded and offensive on so many levels. Who is to say a Asian American boy is less articulate in English and capable in acting prowess than a Caucasian boy? Pixar casted Japanese-American Jordan Nagai to voice act Korean-American inspired Russell in their 2009 film “UP,” and it was arguably one of the most commercially and critically acclaimed successes of the year. Obviously this assumption can’t be the case, especially considering the success of other Asian American cinema such as “Better Luck Tomorrow” in 2002 and “The Joy Luck Club” in 1993.
And who is to say Asian actors in distinctly Asian narratives are any less capable of drawing in American audiences? Ang Lee’s “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” in 2000 opened the gateways to a Hollywood flood of Hong Kong and Asian cinema that had been established by star Asian actor predecessors such as Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan. These legacies proved that American audiences do enjoy Asian cinema, and though they were heavily based on martial arts lore they were nonetheless marketable and a great potential for Hollywood to spread out and include more Asian actors in their films.
Perhaps the greatest offense that the “heroic” characters are portrayed by lily White actors while the “villainous” characters are portrayed dark-skinned Indian actors in lieu of the fact that all the characters have distinctly Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Indian and Inuit characteristics regardless of their “good” or “badness."
This purports my conceit that Paramount blatantly reinforces racism at the institutional level, driven by innately racist assumptions and an ethnocentric desire to bundle Eastern culture – rich in history and human stories – into a big old Yellowface bowtie. Make it as pretty and shiny and "Asian-y” as you want – in the end, this movie is racist and a disrespectful slap in the face of the Eastern heritage it so wishes to profit off of. The studios underlying assumption about marketability and acting capability of White over Asian actors is insulting, and to claim that their production is “diverse” because they cast Asians as secondary and supporting characters ignores the bigger issue at hand – the starring, main Asian characters are portrayed by White actors instead of Asian actors.
Shyamalan – Sold-out, Oblivious, or both?
Indian-American director M. Night Shyamalan has consistently defended the movie as “diverse” much in the same vein of Paramount’s assertions, citing that the production team took careful means to create a film rich in Asian culture and aesthetics – and like the studio, not once has he addressed the bigger issue at hand, that White actors have been favored over Asian actors to play Asian characters.
He completely misses the point about ethnic and racial diversity: dress it up all you want, but at the end of the day it’s Yellowface all over again. It’s an insult to assume that Asians and Asian Americans will be ok with White actors once again taking on the starring roles that are Asian archetypes, and worse that Shyamalan seems peachy keen on the whole premise.
Shyamalan has even stated that he desired to work with Nicola Peltz, the Caucasian actress slated to play the water bender Katara. This statement highlights my other postulate that Shyamalan is not a dumbfounded, overridden director force fed to direct a Yellowface film – that instead he obviously had a say in who he wanted casted, that he fully endorse White actors over Asian actors to play the main parts.
Was he bought? Is he oblivious to the institutionalized racism he’s endorsing? Or is it a bit of both? Whatever the reason, it’s clear Shyamalan is in love with his cinematic vision despite the social implications at hand, and for that I’ve lost all respect for him, especially considering that he himself is a minority director and would presumably empathize with minority actors barred from acting roles due to Hollywood’s underlying racial assumptions. As of now, this director is unredeemable – in screenwriting, in career, and in a self-indulgent streak that ignores world issues for his own self-fulfillment. This is simply shameless.
“Fantasy Universe”
Defenders claim that this just a fantasy universe, some stating that they saw main protagonist Aang as a “White guy” and that the casting is simply “interpretational.” This again misses the point completely – this is a narrative based explicitly on Asian roots, and for a movie that lavishes in the history and beauty of Eastern culture its casting of White actors in the lead “hero” roles is racist and ethnocentric. “Avatar: The Last Airbender” creators Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko have stated multiple time that the story is Asian inspired – characters, costumes, scenery, everything. They envisioned a fantasy universe that dealt with Asian folklore, with cultural and image aesthetics derived from their respective Eastern roots.
An additional angle of the “fantasy universe” defense is that this narrative is fictional and thus subject to interpretation in any adaptation – so why should “The Last Airbender” be sideswiped as an offense in its film adaptation?
Foremost, a great many narratives are fictional regardless of the universe they occupy. Period pieces/history-based, science fiction, epic fantasies, thrillers, romances, psychological – these are all human narratives with fictionalized characters in their respective universes (the exception would be for nonfictions and autobiographies, but even the factual legitimacy can be called into question). When critics lambasted “Inglourious Basterds” as inaccurate and a rewriting of history, director Quentin Tarantino replied:
“My characters don’t know that they are part of history. They have no pre-recorded future, and they are not aware of anything they can or cannot do. I have never pre-destined my characters, ever. And I felt now wasn’t the time to start. So basically, where I’m coming from on this issue is:
(1) My characters changed the course of the war.
(2) Now that didn’t happen because in real life my characters didn’t exist.
(3) But if they had’ve existed, from Frederick Zoller on down, everything that happens is quite plausible.”
Extending this to “The Last Airbender” story, the characters are presumably in a universe that is centered around what we otherwise identify with as Eastern culture. The characters themselves may not know it, but we know full well that they are analogous to many aspects of Asian culture. From the philosophies to the customs, the narrative of elemental benders lends itself to Eastern heritage; these characters don’t exist in real life, but in their universe they are very much Asian in roots, and with their existence comes the story popular and beloved by many fans of the series.
With this in mind, Paramount’s casting is even more offensive and disrespectful. If they had any sort of cultural humiliation and decency, the studio would understand that they are in fact depicting cultures that have histories and legacies of human stories and accomplishments specific to the Eastern hemisphere in this narration, and to bundle it all up all nice and pretty with a Yellowface frosting is nothing short of ethnocentrism and institutionalized racism.
But the voice actors spoke English in the original television series!
Of course they did. English is the predominant language in America, and let’s face it – most viewers prefer to watch instead of watch and and read at the same time. On the opposite fold, the anime series “Fullmetal Alchemist” is Western inspired with some Chinese and Middle Eastern characters – and yet they speak Japanese, simply because the production is Japanese and primarily marketed to a Japanese audience. Similarly, “Avatar: The Last Airbender” is an American production that was marketed primarily to a American audience that is predominantly English-speaking.
Does this make “Avatar: The Last Airbender” any less Eastern or “Fullmetal Alchemist” any less Western?
No. The creators of each series have explicitly stated their respective influences: “The Last Airbender” creators DiMartino and Konieztko listed Asian culture and Hayao Miyazaki’s cinematic legacy as main influences for their narrative premise; “Fullmetal Alchemist” creator Hiromu Arakawa detailed how she researched the European Industrial Revolution and Western-based hypotheses on alchemy in order to flesh out a convincing world.
Their narratives may be conveyed in the non-traditional language, but the narrative structure and influences are true to their origins in both series. This is what matters the most, and it’s what Paramount and Shyamalan completely misunderstand when they so thoroughly believe they are being “true” to the series’ distinctly Eastern cultural and aesthetic roots when they’ve casted White actors for the main roles.
“Isn’t it time we stopped looking at race?”
NO.
This argument flies from the ends of Shyamalan and Paramount defenders, who believe that in this day and age we should all be colorblind to race and its associated implications.
However, as presented in the PBS award-winning documentary “Unnatural Causes,” it’s been proven that ethnic minorities, compared to White Americans in the same socioeconomic statuses, have higher rates of chronic illnesses such as cardiovascular diseases and heart attacks than their white counterparts.
These higher rates are the result of allostatic load and weathering – the resultant and combined stresses that can result from differing levels of racism that are either explicit or implicit. For instance, a Mexican lawyer with a degree from Yale who is followed around in a store would experience self-mediated racism; another example would be a African American doctor with a MD and PhD who sees a woman gripping her purse tightly when they ride the same elevator together, in which case he would also experience self-mediated racism. Both examples highlight how ethnic minorities experience a day-to-day incident of racism, and presumably these incidents activate a certain amount of distress (stressors) that subconsciously build up and cause them to be more susceptible to illnesses when the stressors inadvertently compromise their immunity.
Consequently, ignoring the effects and significance of race, while a ideal vision, is inapplicable and inappropriate to current social and political infrastructures at hand. We must consider race as a factor in any case since racism still plays a active role in how people operate on a daily basis.
This is not to say that we simply cast aside all inhibitions: if you’re in the projects, it’s generally a bad idea to assist anyone “find their lost dog in the alleyway.” What is important and relevant is understanding our own racist tendencies in order to begin rising above them; furthermore, comprehending that other ethnicities are people jut like ourselves, that their behaviors and lifestyles are governed by their own culture, histories and respective political and social infrastructures that they occupy.
For these reasons, I was never a fan of the original “Karate Kid” because despite it’s casting of Noriyuki ‘Pat’ Morita as the famous Kesuke Miyagi (aka Mr. Miyagi), the story was a classic Western-style coming-of-age parable that, in a sense, shallowly alluded to Eastern philosophy for Western application and usage.
The newer adaptation with Jaden Smith and Jackie Chan – while not without its editing faults – dealt not only with a coming-of-age story but also with a universal message of humane goodness that unites us all despite cultural differences. The 2010 remake went even further to highlight these differences, and instead of exoticizing such discrepancies breaks away from traditional ethnocentrism and endorses cultural humility, a willingness to step away from an “all-knowing” outsiders approach.
This deep respect for Eastern cultural roots in the 2010 “Karate Kid” is gapingly missing from Paramount’s and Shyamalan’s approach in “The Last Airbender,” in which they so thoroughly believe in the appropriateness of their sidestepping Asian actors for White actors in the main roles, actors who could never fully empathize with the Eastern philosophies and aesthetics they are set to act out.
A Personal Argument
There’s a reason why “Mighty Morphin Power Rangers,” despite its untimely silliness, was so successful when it first launched in the US: for one, its cast was ethnically diverse alongside the awesomeness of gigantic monsters blowing up cardboard buildings and grey putty minions sidestepping haplessly as the rangers whooped their respective butts.
I knew many Asian children (especially Asian American girls) who loved the Yellow Ranger Trini Kwan because she was played by the late Vietnamese-American actress Thuy Trang. They loved her not only because she kicked ass, but additionally because she was Asian. Many of the same girls also loved Fa Mulan in Disney’s 1998 “Mulan” for this same reason, and it was a major plus that she was voiced by Macanese-born American actress Ming Na. These women, these characters – they were them, they empathized and sympathized with their cultural roots, they were heroes.
The point is that they had an Asian hero to look up to on the big movie screens and television series, that with these heroes they were assured that as Asians, they had value to some Hollywood and network executives. Above all, they were being represented, which meant that someone understood that as Asians they too comprised the American public.
I can only imagine how many disappointed Asian American children will flock to the theaters only to see that their animated heroes are now depicted by White actors who could never truly empathize with their distinct Asian cultural roots. This is a movie that casted actor Jackson Rathbone, who believes that being Asian means “[pulling] my hair up, [shaving] the sides, and definitely [getting] a tan. It’s one of those things where, hopefully, the audience will suspend disbelief a little bit.”
Suspending belief, Mr. Rathbone? I believe the term you’re looking for is Yellowface.
Closing Remarks
“The Last Airbender” had so much potential to break Hollywood’s tradition of racebending. Paramount disappointingly chose not to, and Shyamalan shamelessly agreed to the terms at the expense of his own cultural roots.
I don’t blame the actors – they are simply looking for work in an unforgiving business, trying to make a name for themselves. And while their comments can be idiotic it must be noted that they were recruited by a larger institution that revels in racist assumptions.
For these numerous reasons, I will not endorse this film. As a Vietnamese American, I find “The Last Airbender’s” production and casting a great offense to my cultural roots, and believe that Paramount – and especially Shyamalan – should be ashamed of themselves. Frankly, I hope they go down in film anthropology as infamous practioners of self-indulgent, self-delusional ignorance, stupidity and racism.
I only hope that one day, if I happen to have a kid, that they will have someone to look up to on the big screen, someone that shares their innate empathy and understanding of their Eastern (and perhaps mixed) cultural roots. If not, I’ll be damned to get Hollywood away from wallet when they try to profit off of racebending and that blasted 3D gimmick they seem to love so much.
For more information on the controversy, go here. For a satirical take on the issue, go here.
Link to Roger Ebert’s response in the December 23, 2009 Answer Man column regarding “The Last Airbender” casting controversy.
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Edit on 7/9/10: A little over a week has passed this article has been published, and from the responses I’ve been getting it seems I may have missed a few key aspects about the controversy initially. For supplementary readings, here are a few links:
Sunday Roundup 7/4/10 – Q&A for a lot of the feedback I received. This clarifies a lot of misunderstandings and misconceptions about what I’ve written.
Cats, Cows, and Pies – A guest post by Viet Le of word/game, who perhaps articulated the most important point I missed in initially writing this article. I’m fortunate enough to be of his acquaintance and continuously bounce ideas off him and back.
