Cvetkovich and Clare: The Nuances of Trauma

                Within “An Archive of Feelings” Ann Cvetkovich investigates trauma and our society’s perceptions of trauma, arguing for the rethinking of what constitutes the categorization “traumatic.”  She draws on influences from the realms of Marxism, queer theory, Feminism, and race issues to assert that insidious trauma, or trauma which “resists the melodramatic structure of an easily identifiable origin of trauma,” is just as legitimate as the common notion of trauma as originating from a clearly identifiable and catastrophic personal experience (33).   Under the framework she constructs, having experienced the Holocaust is traumatic, but having ancestors who lived through this atrocity is traumatic as well. By locating trauma as a thoroughly personal reaction to a horrible experience, and thus as a condition which should be treated with personalized therapeutic or medical attention, Cevetkovich claims our society produces “a hall of mirrors in which social problems are reduced to diseases in need of forever refined diagnosis,” positioning the recognition of the legitimacy of insidious trauma as paramount to revealing “the need to change social structures more broadly rather than just fix individual people”(33).

                The disability rights movement, as described by Eli Clare within her article “Stolen Bodies, Reclaimed Bodies: Disability and Queerness,” operates in accordance to Cvetkovich’s perspective that the medicalization and personalization of traumatic experience has led social problems to remain unaddressed. Clare asserts the “dominant paradigms of disability,” which she labels “the medical, charity, supercrip, and moral models” all “turn disability into problems face by individual people, locate those problems in our bodies, and define those bodies as wrong”(359-69).  These simplistic ways of viewing disability, and more specifically the trauma of disability, are all based on fairly one dimensional emotional responses, or what Cvetkovich would deem “easy emotions.”  In contrast to these efforts  to locate the pain of disability entirely within the brokenness of the body, the disability rights movement positions the insidious trauma of living as a disabled individual in America as a derivative of the “material and social conditions of albeism,” or a result of societal discrimination (360).  However, though Clare’s description of day to day life as a queer individual with a disability can rightfully be labeled traumatic, revealing an investment in Cvetkovich’s conception of insidious trauma, she harshly critiques the disability rights movement’s attempt to externalize the experience of this trauma, arguing that the experience of oppression cannot be divorced from personalized bodily experience.

                Though Cvetkovich and Clare can be viewed as embodying opposing stances on the basis of these external and internal focuses, their respective arguments are not completely adversarial. Cvetkovich expresses a reverence for those who refuse to accept the inscriptions society has written onto their bodies and the conception of themselves as broken by their trauma, calling for exploration of the infinitely varied affective experience of those who live with insidious trauma.   The chronicle of Clare’s process of coming to terms with the physical realities of her disability presented within “Stolen Bodies, Reclaimed Bodies: Disability and Queerness” provides a perfect example of both an individual’s refusal to be defined by societal definitions and a representation of an infinitely complicated affective response to traumatic circumstances which transcends “easy emotion”.  Though Cvetkovich positions societal change, or the reevaluation and transformation of familiar attitudes concerning trauma’s definition and the scope of its effects, as a key step to reducing the pain of those affected by insidious trauma, while Clare asserts the lives of such individuals can most expediently be improved through the alteration of how they themselves put their own experience into context, these processes are certainly intertwined, and both scholars recognize this fact.  By acknowledging the importance of those who have been affected by insidious trauma reclaiming shame, a thoroughly personal action, Cvetkovich reveals that her argumentation for societal change is motivated by a belief that widespread recognition of insidious trauma will make processes of personal healing easier.  Thus her argument does not undercut the importance of the personal experience of trauma, but reflects a determination that personal experience is connected to history and the collective experience of groups.  Similarly, Clare concedes that personal transformation is reliant on “all the allies, lovers, community, and friends we can gather, all the rabble-rousing and legislation, all the vibrant culture and articulate theory we can bring into being” or the very external factors which Cvetkovich champions (364).  Though their concentrations vary, it is unfair to accuse Cvetkovich of abandoning the body and unwarranted to assert Clare does not recognize context. Together the argumentation of both scholars forms a coherent vision of the complexities of trauma, its infinitely personal nature and simultaneous connection to social and cultural history spanning centuries. 

Works Cited

Clare, Eli. "Stolen Bodies, Reclaimed Bodies: Disability and Queerness." Public      Culture, Volume 13, Number 3, Fall 2001, pp. 359-365. Print.

Cvetkovich, Ann. An Archive of Feelings: Trauma, Sexuality, and Lesbian Public      Cultures. Duke University Press. 2003. 

Lars Revisited

Last week I posted a critique of Lars and the Real Girl which was quite negative and did not reflect my instincts about the movie. Luckily our class discussion allowed me to rethink my arguments and (I hope) improve them. Here is a pretty massive revision of my former scathing interpretation.

Lars and the Real Girl, a 2007 film which takes up the topics of alternative desire and societal reaction to such intimacy raises important questions about tolerance of sexual difference and the establishment of sexual identity.  Lars, the film’s protagonist, who is clearly alienated from the heterosexual matrix as the film begins, jumps headlong into the realm of marginalized queerness as he orders an “anatomically correct” sex doll and proceeds to christen her Bianca, introducing her to his community as his perfectly normal, and thoroughly alive, girlfriend.  Nevertheless, with the prodding of the local mental health professional Doctor Dagner, the community accepts his notion Bianca is alive.  Though this exercise of tolerance presents an indictment to societal systems which harshly prevent any legitimization of transgressions of normal sexual conduct and desires, the film ultimately fails to explore the possibility of a world in which heteronormativity is not idealized as the norm Doctor Dagner’s treatment of Lars opens for exploration. Though this squandered opportunity prevents the film from presenting enterprising argumentation for the normalization alternative sexualities and desires, queerness colors the film from start to finish, presenting the progressive, though less ambitious, assertion that queer desire and identification has the right to exist despite its deviation from norms and cannot be eradicated despite its marginalization.

Though he does not have a same sex partner or practice a condemned sex act as the film begins, Lars can be rightfully designated as queer due to the expansive nature of the classification, which Sedgwick claims identifies anyone whose personality traits, procreative choice, enjoyment of power in sexual relations, and other aspects of sexual identity do not perfectly correlate with their biological sex or resist organization into a “seamless and univocal whole”(Sedgwick 8). Lars’ inability to socialize, asexuality, and avoidance of physical contact prevent the characterization of him as a heterosexual and effeminize him by suggesting he is passive by nature.  This inconsistent sexual identity reveals the life Lars leads within his garage apartment situated on the margins of the heterosexual family home of Karin and Gus is securely outside the realm of heteronormativity long before he purchases a sex doll and proceeds to date her. 

Lars’ queerness is put into sharper relief by his friend’s and family’s concerns for his lack of sexuality and sociability as the film begins, which reveal a clear privileging of heteronormativity within the community. The moment in which Mrs. Gruners assaults Lars with questions concerning his sexuality as they exit church effectively illustrates this privileging, as her initial query as to why he does not have a girlfriend reveals that heterosexual desire is the assumed sexuality, and thus the norm. Though she later asks if he is gay in a friendly manner, claiming she knows all about “the gays,” her simplification of queerness implicit within this reductive categorization shows she and other members of the community probably do not possess a nuanced respect of and understanding for alternative forms of desire and non-heteronormative identifications.  Furthermore, her act of giving Lars a flower, an item traditionally associated with man’s pursuit of women, to pass along to someone special suggests it would certainly be preferable if that special someone was a woman and attempts to push Lars into the masculine gender role of the aggressor of romance. Lars’ rejection of this role is clearly evidenced by his immediate disposal of the flower when Margo, a potential heterosexual love interest, speaks to him.  Gus and Karin’s absolute joy when they initially believe the formerly reclusive Lars is hosting a live female visitor further evidences the community’s investment in heteronormativity, while their horror upon realizing his new girlfriend is a sex doll, and subsequent conclusion he is demented, reveals that though his relative asexuality was concerning, the act of loving a doll is much more abhorrent. 

Despite this initial horror at Lars’ new queerness, which incites a heightened level of concern, likely due to its status as an “offense against the regularity of a natural function,” Gus, Karin, and Lars’ larger community are able to play along with Lars’ delusion().  The community’s acceptance of Lars’ delusion is conceived by Doctor Dagmar, a medical professional with an enlightened approach to the treatment of abnormal behavior.  Rather than diagnosing Lars with a mental illness, Dagmar classifies his alternative desire for Bianca and faulty perceptions of her nature as a delusion, externalizing his queerness rather than classifying this intimacy as the defining factor of Lars’ identity or a force “at the root of all his actions because it was their insidious and indefinitely active principle; written all over his face and body it was a secret that always gave itself away”( 43).  Accordingly, Dagmar asserts the best course of action is to allow Lars the opportunity to work out his delusion on his own terms rather than attempting to undertake Gus’ injunction to “fix him” by placing him in a institution or intervening medically, actions which by nature present such alternative desires as both the determinant factor of identity and undesirable.  Dagmar’s medical advice, which asserts the right for queerness to exist and be respected within the community, is rooted in her conclusion Lars’ feelings for Bianca are indeed “real” and are not a hazard to himself or others. The legitimization of queerness implicit within her refusal to marginalize Lars’ delusion directly attacks the privileging of heteronormativity within the community.

As Dagmar attempts to stifle the impulse of Gus, Karin, and the larger community to aggressively eradicate Lars’ queerness, her progressive plan creates a potential for the overturn of traditional power dynamics. Within The History of Sexuality, Foucault explores the power systems which have led to the simultaneous visibility and condemnation of queerness within modern culture, pinpointing the identification of individuals by their respective sexualities as vital to the creation of definitive roles of the sexual transgressor and enforcer of norms, divisions which lead to the marginalization of sexualities deemed abnormal.  As Doctor Dagmar attempts to avert the definition of Lars exclusively by his queerness and condemnation of his sexual identity, she acts to prevent characterization of him as a sexual transgressor subject  to the community’s enforcement of norms and  hopelessly entangled within  the “perpetual spirals of power and pleasure” which form as “the pleasure that comes of exercising a power that questions, monitors, watches, spies, searches out, palpates, brings to light; and on the other hand, the pleasure that kindles at having to evade this power, flee from it, fool it, or travesty it” ( Foucault 45).    As the breakdown of this power dynamic detaches the acts of condemning sexual practices and evading these judgments from pleasure, true embracement of Dr. Dagmar’s directions leads to the expiration of the need for a normalized sexuality on which to base this power dynamic. Consequently, in the wake of Dr. Dagmar’s plan, Lars’ community appears ripe for a complete destabilization of sexual hierarchy or the establishment of a space that reflects “not just a safe zone for queer sex but the changed possibilities of identity, intelligibility, publics, culture, and sex that appear when the heterosexual couple is no longer the reference or privileged example of sexual culture”(548).  Nevertheless, the film fails to displace heteronormativity as a normative force, and thus capitalize on this opportunity to fully explore the queer possibility its premise presents.

Though the community partially legitimizes Lars’ queerness by accepting his delusion, momentarily abdicating the role of enforcer of sexual norms, it never wholly embraces the sentiment Lars’ sexual identity is normal and equal to heteronormative identifications.  First and foremost, the community’s act of treating Bianca as a live girl arises somewhat grudgingly from the only available medical recommendation to dispel delusion rather than an embracement of the principle queerness does not deserve to be an object of derision implicit within Doctor Dagmar’s counsel, and, therefore, is principally an act to eventually expel Lars’ queerness rather than embrace his atypical desire.  This bastardization of Doctor Dagmar’s intent becomes apparent as Gus and Karin present their conundrum to their friends and coworkers, cracking jokes and reveling in the shock of the relationship.  In these moments, there does not seem to be any challenge to the community to accept Lars’ desire as normal or real, but simply humor him in order to most effectively work through the unfortunate situation.  Moreover, as Lars’ desire for Bianca escalates, the community reclaims the role of the enforcer of norms by finding Bianca employment, taking her to recreational activities, and even electing her to the school board, actions which humanize the doll, and thus passively attempt to push Lars into the world of human heterosexual relationships they privilege. Though the community undeniably forms an attachment to Bianca, an embodiment of the queerness they are attempting to eradicate, there is a level of mockery within these relationships preventing true and progressive identification with the queerness she represents, as her placement on the school board shows that her integration into the community is integrally tied to the comedy and novelty of the situation.  Though Dagmar’s intent laid out in her instructions to Karin and Gus is a progressive step toward the destabilization of the community’s heteronormativity sensibilities, the community does not seems to possess the desire or humanity to evaluate their prejudices and assumptions  exposed as the film begins.

The opportunity the film has to portray a world in which “the heterosexual couple is no longer the reference or privileged example of sexual culture” is further undermined by the film’s allocation of a heteronormative perspective to viewers. Just as the community assumes Lars identifies as heteronormative before the emergence of Bianca, the film assumes its audience cannot identify with queerness, as viewers scarcely inhabit the perspective of Lars, and are only afforded this level of identification in the moments in which he is exhibiting heterosexual or masculine behaviors.  As the film begins, the audience first views Lars through a window and the cover of his baby blanket, an image which creates multiple layers of separation between him and the viewer.  Soon after, viewers inhabit the gaze of Karen, a woman whose marriage and pregnancy make her a fitting representation of normalized and fertile heterosexuality, and Lars’ social queerness during their exchange likely reassures audiences that Karen’s  gaze is the viewpoint with which they can identify.  The audience is not prompted to identify with Lars until viewers nearly inhabit his gaze, watching the action from a viewpoint just beyond Lars shoulders, as he views Margo from the vending machine room, pulling up a chair in order to so, in a moment which reveals his growing intrigue with this human girl and the world of heterosexuality her undying affection offers.  Soon after, viewers look upon Margo from Lars’ unadulterated perspective as she interacts with her current boyfriend.  This moment once again reveals a growing affection for Margo, and, furthermore, a momentary embodiment of a more typically masculine gender role, as Lars firmly shakes her boyfriend’s hand in a manner that can be viewed as an assertive disclosure of masculinity.  Though Bianca is Lars’ love interest for the majority of the film, viewers only see her from Lars’ perspective late in the work’s progression as he questions Gus about the transition into manhood, a moment in which Bianca’s escalating sickness and Lars’ simultaneous increased intrigue with Margo reveal he is slowly embracing the heterosexual desire privileged by the community and the assumed heterosexual audience.  This progression is further signified by the fact that we only see Bianca from Lars’ perspective as he looks upon her through a window, a layer of separation which signifies he is quickly becoming alienated from the  abnormal sexuality the doll  embodies in a manner similar to the separation of the audience from Lars generated at the film’s beginning.  Thus, the manipulation of gaze within the film does not challenge viewers to identify with Lars’ queerness, an act vital to any earnest attempt to displace heteronormativity as the norm within the film, but rather encourages heteronormative identification by directing the audience to identify with the apparent progression to heteronormativity Lars is undergoing with the community’s aid.

Despite the impending transformation suggested by the film, Lars’ queerness perseveres. Though Lars’ act of killing Bianca, and thus actively dispelling his own queer delusion, in order to pursue Margo, the human love interest championed by his community from the film’s beginning, undoubtedly displays an embracement of heterosexuality and momentary embodiment of a masculine gender role, he never forms a coherent sexual identity, the hallmark of heteronormativity, due to his failure to completely embrace masculinity.  On the day of Bianca’s funeral, he pays tribute to her by wearing her sweater, and this instance, which is not Lars’ first display of a fondness of drag within the film, asserts he still has effeminate tendencies.  This effeminate characterization is solidified during his final exchange with Margo, as his lack of sexual assertiveness, a trait he also consistently displays over the film’s course through a lack of significant physical intimacy with Bianca, is signaled by his choice to invite her on a walk rather go in for a kiss, an action which traditionally serves as the final scene signifying the beginning of a relationship in films truly championing heteronormativity. Furthermore, the absence of this defining kiss, coupled with the fact this final exchange between Lars and Margo occurs in a graveyard, a thoroughly infertile atmosphere, suggests the pair’s relationship, though heterosexual in nature, may never escalate into a fertile bond of the likes of Gus and Karin’s relationship, a connection which embodies the heteronormative principles privileged by the community.

Lars and the Real Girl fails to fully capitalize on the possibilities Doctor Dagmar’s suggestions present, which generate the potential to disrupt sexual power dynamics and displace heteronormativity as a privileged and assumed identify. Nevertheless, Lars’ queerness, which is never normalized by the community, does survive an atmosphere which is hostile to its difference, powerfully asserting its “realness” or legitimacy.   In this regard, the film itself takes on a queer structure, as there is no progression toward a preferable, or even merely definitive, end result within the work key to the Hollywood formula of romances.  Though the film constructs a seemingly positive progression toward heteronormativity through Lars’ actions and both the community’s and audiences’ relation to these actions, Lars’ progression explodes within the graveyard scene as his continued evasion of heteronormativity is displayed.  He is queer when the film begins and remains queer when the film ends.  Moreover, this queerness is not normalized as the film begins and remains non-normative as the graveyard scene draws to a close.  This sense of stagnancy makes the film queer, questioning the legitimacy of the possibility of the normative transformation it constructs and the productivity of the heteronormative norms it resists fully displacing.

Lars and The Real Girl: An Emphasis on Real and Heteronormativity

Lars and the Real Girl, a 2007 film which takes up the topics of alternative desire and societal reaction to such intimacy raises important questions about tolerance of sexual differance and the establishment of sexual identity.  Lars, the film’s protagonist who is clearly isolated from the heterosexual matrix as the film begins, jumps headlong into both the realms of marginalized sexuality and mental illness as he orders an “anatomically correct” sex doll and proceeds to christen her Bianca, introducing her to his community as his perfectly normal, and thoroughly alive, girlfriend.  With the prodding of the local mental health professional Doctor Dagner and Lars’ family, the community accepts his notion Bianca is alive.  Though the largely tolerant reaction of Lars’ family, doctor, co-workers, and widespread community to Bianca presents an indictment to intolerant societal systems which harshly prevent any legitimization of transgressions of normal sexual conduct and desires, the correlation of alternative sexuality and delusion generated within the film undercuts the strength of the argumentation made for the normalization of sexual desire. In accepting Lars’ sexuality, the community is ultimately not acknowledging his acts are acceptable, but attempting to reintegrate him to a state of normalcy, which is repeatedly associated with normative heterosexual desire.   Furthermore, neither the community nor audience are asked to identify with his intimacy with Bianca or accept the physical realities alternative sexualities similar to Lars often entail, but rather are encouraged to celebrate his ultimate transition into the heteronormative world signified by his increasing attraction to Margo, a “real girl,” and the ultimate death of his delusion.  In light of the film’s lack of demand for true identification with Lars’ intimacy with Bianca, the work fails to promote treatment of sexual identity which normalizes alternative desire and makes community more accessible for those with queer tendencies.  In contrast, the general progression of the film reinforces the privileging of normalized heterosexual desire and suggests that such desire is natural.

Lars’ community clearly favors normalized heterosexual desire, and reveals such desire is considered superior to alternative forms of desire from the film’s beginning. The moment after a church service in which Mrs. Gruners assaults Lars with questions concerning his sexuality, which evolve from her query why he does not have a girlfriend, effectively illustrates community norms.  Though she asks if he is gay in a friendly manner, claiming she knows all about “the gays,” her simplification of alternative desire implicit with this reductive categorization shows she and other members of the community probably do not possess a nuisanced respect of and understanding for alternative sexuality.  Furthermore, her act of giving Lars a flower, an item traditionally associated with romance between men and women, to pass along to someone special suggests it would certainly be preferable if that special someone was a woman.  The status of normative heterosexuality as the form of intimacy privileged within the community is further reinforced by the suggestive observation that Lar’s coworker Margo, a heterosexual female,  is cute made by a the secretary of Lars’ workplace and Gus and Karin’s absolute joy when they initially believe Lars is hosting a live female visitor.  The horror Karin and Gus express upon realizing Lars’ new girlfriend is a sex doll as they panic in the kitchen and conclude he has gone crazy reveals that though his relative asexuality was concerning, the act of loving a sex doll, and thus dramatically departing from the heterosexual matrix, is much more abhorrent.

Despite this initial horror, Gus, Karin, and the community are able to curb their perceptions of normality enough to play along with Lars’ delusion Bianca is a live girl. This tolerant reaction is conceived by Doctor Dagmar, a community medical professional with an enlightened approach to the treatment of abnormal behaviors.  Rather than diagnosing Lars with a mental illness, Dagmar classifies his alternative desire for Bianca and faulty perceptions of her nature as a delusion, externalizing his abnormal behavior rather than classifying this intimacy as the defining factor of Lars’ identity. By externalizing Lars’ sexuality, Dagmar resists what Foucault positions as the typical modern discursive representation of those with queer desires as individuals whose sexuality is an omnipresence in all aspects of their identity or a force “at the root of all his actions because it was their insidious and indefinitely active principle; written all over his face and body it was a secret that always gave itself away”( 43).  Accordingly, Dagmar asserts the best course of action is to allow Lars the opportunity to work out his delusion on his own terms and for those who surround him to refrain from contesting his perceptions rather than placing him in a institution or intervening medically, actions which by nature present such alternative desires as problematic and the determinant factor of identity.

Though the partial legitimization of Lars’ desires resulting from the majority of the community’s choice to join Dr. Dagmar, Karin, and Gus in treating Bianca as the living individual Lars envisions her to be is certainly an act of tolerance, the scope of this act as a true act of tolerating alternative sexuality is limited. First and foremost, treating Bianca as a live girl is a doctor’s recommendation to dispel delusions, and, therefore, is principally an act to eventually expel Lars’ alternative sexuality than embrace his atypical desire.  As Gus and Karin present their conundrum to their friends and coworkers, cracking jokes and reveling in the shock of the relationship, there does not seem to be any challenge to the community to accept Lars’ desire as normal, but simply humor him in order to most effectively work through the unfortunate situation.  Moreover, as Lars’ desire for Bianca escalates, the community makes a concerted effort to humanize her by finding her employment, taking her to recreational activities, and even electing her to the school board, actions which push the pair’s relationship as close to normalized heterosexual desire as it can possibly become, suggesting a generalized goal of eventually incorporating Lars into this world.  This aversion to acceptance is not completely based on the delusional quality of his intimacy with Bianca, as his coworkers reactions to the sex doll assert such desire would be considered abnormal even if Lars was aware of Bianca’s lifelessness.  In introducing the brand of dolls to Lars, Eric whispers they are anatomically correct, revealing that sexual desire for and acts with inanimate objects  are not something that can spoken about at a normal volume, or a marginalized sexuality which evokes a sense of shame or embarrassment.  Similarly, the woman of the heterosexual couple who discusses the nature of the doll at Lars’ work party expresses clear revulsion to her male counterpart’s assertion Lars has sexual relations with the doll, asserting once again that physical intimacy with the doll without delusion would still be considered unhealthy or obscene by several segments of society.

The film’s aversion to portraying Lars and Bianca’s relationship in these physical terms further undercuts any attempt to position the story as one promoting sexual tolerance.  Lars’ initial request to have Bianca hosted within the main house rather than his garage due to the fact that they are unmarried reveals a lack of intention to consummate their relationship.  However, the clearly conscious effort of the film to dispel viewer’s perception, or fear, that the status of their relationship has changed reveals an unwillingness to explore the physicality of alternative sexuality.  As Lars chooses to take over Gus’ duty of putting Bianca to bed, leaving the pair alone in the privacy of the pink room as the rest of the house goes to sleep, the next scene shows Lars in his own garage bedroom, dispelling any suggestion their relationship has become physical. Similarly, though Lars expresses the desire to spend the night in the pink room as Bianca approaches her death, once again potentially giving viewers the impression the pair’s relationship may be consummated, the following scene in which Gus opens the bedroom door to check on them reveals them innocently lying hand in hand.  Viewers are never truly asked to come to terms with or accept the act of physical intimacy with an inanimate object, as the only physical intimacy between Gus and Bianca is a goodbye kiss. In this respect, viewers are not asked to come to terms with the bodily actions associated with alternative sexuality which are often viewed as grotesque and serve as a principle factor of difference leading to a lack of tolerance of alternative sexuality.

Aside from not being asked to contemplate the physicality of Lars’ alternative sexuality, one can easily argue viewers are not asked to identify with Lars’ desire for Bianca at all.  Such an assertion can be evidenced simply by the moments, or perhaps more appropriately lack of moments, in which viewers embody Lars’ gaze.  As the film begins, viewers first see Lars through a window with his face is partially covered by his baby blanket, an image which creates multiple layers of separation between him and the viewer.  Soon after, viewers inhabit the gaze of Karen, a woman whose marriage and pregnancy make her a fitting representation of normalized heterosexuality, and Lars’ reluctance to interact with her as he once again shields himself behind a window compounds this separation, as his social strangeness likely reassures audiences that Karen’s gaze is truly the viewpoint with which they can identify.  The audience does not come close to seeing the film’s progression of events from the perspective of Lars until viewers nearly inhabit his gaze, watching the action from a point just beyond Lars shoulders, as he views Margo from the vending machine room, pulling up a chair in order to so, in a moment which reveals his growing intrigue with this real girl and the world of heterosexuality her undying affection offers.  Soon after, viewers look upon Margo from Lars’ unadulterated perspective as she interacts with her current boyfriend.  This moment once again reveals a growing affection for Margo, and a progression towards a more typically masculine gender role, as Lars shakes Erik’s hand firmly upon Margo’s introduction in manner that can be viewed as a challenge to Erik’s masculinity and expression of jealousy.  In contrast, viewers only see Bianca from Lars’ perspective later in the film’s progression as he questions Gus about the transition into manhood, a moment in which Bianca’s escalating sickness and Lars’ simultaneous increased intrigue with Margo reveal he is already well on his way to a transition toward normalized heterosexual desire.  This transition and the accompanying waning intimacy is further signified by the fact that we only see Bianca through Lars’ gaze through the separation of a window while she does yard work with Karen outside. This layer of separation between Lars and Bianca signifies he, like the heterosexual audience the movie seems to assume, is quickly becoming alienated from the sex doll in a manner similar to the separation of the audience from Lars generated at the film’s beginning.  Thus, the manner in which the film is shot only asks audiences to identify with Lars’ perspective when he is transitioning to a heteronormative perspective, which seems to be the assumed viewpoint of the audience which remains unquestioned throughout the film’s course.

Though the lack of legitimate challenges the film makes for both viewers and community members to identify or accept alternative sexuality compromises its status as a work promoting tolerance, the eventual return to heteronormativity the acceptance of Lars’ delusion by the community leads to sends the extremely troubling message that normalized heterosexual desire is the natural derivative of tolerance.  In Michel Foucault’s The History of Sexuality, he explores the discursive systems which have led to the visibility of heterosexuality within modern culture, pinpointing the medicalization of sexual difference and resulting identification of individuals by their respective sexualities as a key component which maintains the marginalization of sexual difference.  As Doctor Dagmar, Lars’s family, and his community resist defining of Lars solely by his alternative sexuality or completely condemning this sexuality, and thus prevent definitive differentiation between normalized desire and Lars’ love for a sex doll he believes is alive, this level of tolerance prevents the strict identification of the sexual transgressor and the enforcer of the norm Foucault’s model requires.  Consequently, this lack of differentiation prevents the formation of “perpetual spirals of power and pleasure” which he asserts form as “The pleasure that comes of exercising a power that questions, monitors, watches, spies, searches out, palpates, brings to light; and on the other hand, the pleasure that kindles at having to evade this power, flee from it, fool it, or travesty it” endlessly play off one another(45).  However the release of Lars, a representative of alternative sexuality, from the confinement of the category of transgressor does not allow his difference to peacefully coexist amongst other sexual practices, but leads him to embrace heterosexuality. Under this framework, the film on some level supports the ideology that if you ignore and tolerate queerness, it will eventually go away, portraying prolonged or permanent alternative sexuality as heavily reliant on the lures of transgression. Such a portrayal is certainly not progressive, and suggests that if human beings resisted the pleasures of punishing each other and evading punishments, queerness would naturally die in a manner similar to Bianca.

Lars and the Real Girl is a cute movie that elicits laughs and considerations of the possibility of a world tolerant of sexual difference.  However, by forging an alliance between mental instability and queerness and then reverting to a happy Hollywood ending in which the guy takes his chance with the human girl who has thoroughly proven her devotion, the film squanders its opportunity to capitalize on its disruptions of the power dynamics of sexual difference and explore what Berlant and Warner deem “not just a safe zone for queer sex but the changed possibilities of identity, intelligibility, publics, culture and sex that appear when the heterosexual couple is not longer the reference or the privileged example of sexual culture”(548).   The squandering of this opportunity, coupled with the extremely regressive view of queer desire as based in the pleasure of transgression, and thus divorced from physical pleasure, the films progression can be interpreted as supporting, prevents the film from presenting a message of any substance useful to the fight against heteronormativity.

Works Cited

Berlant, Lauren and Warner, Michael. "Sex in Public."  Critical Inquiry, Vol. 24, No. 2 Intimacy. p547-566. 1998. Print.

Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality: Volume 1 An Introduction. Vintage Books, New York. 1998. Print.

Lars and the Real Girl. Dir. Craig Gillespie. Prod. Sidney Kimmel, John Cameron, and Sarah Aubrey. By Nancy Oliver. Perf. Ryan Gosling, Emily Mortimer, and Paul Schneider. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 2007.

Stace's Misfortune and the Incredible Power of Names

Wesley Stace’s Misfortune is a thoroughly pleasurable read, despite the fact that it is riddled with cringe- worthy moments forcing readers to both consider the depths of human cruelty and question their own notions of “natural” sexuality.  The richness of the book’s construction transforms what could be considered merely a politically relevant novel into a truly excellent read. One aspect of this wondrous intricacy is the names Stace utilizes, and the manner in which these surface identifications relate to the broader themes of the work.  The importance of names in the novel is revealed within the novel’s title, which itself reflects on the infinite possibilities language presents. Misfortune is drawn from the name “Miss Fortune,” the fond nickname given to Rose by the villagers surrounding Lovehall during her happy girlhood.  However, the title also is representative of the literal definition of misfortune, as Rose does not have the luxury of remaining “Miss Fortune” for long in several senses, and the ensuing destabilization leads to a regrettable series of events. The title deftly encapsulates the variance of emotional tones resulting from Rose’s struggles with identity.

The plethora of interpretive possibilities names present are further explored through the Loveall name.  The name Loveall , like the title of the book itself, offers an array of connections to the story and the family which bears it.  Lady Loveall, who dies in the work’s first section, certainly does not “love all” or tolerate individuals despite their gender, class, or demeanor. However, the promiscuous connotation of the name- within the heterosexual matrix-  which the family was hoping to avoid when they decided to make the singular version of the name Loveall rather than Lovealls, may fittingly represent Lady Loveall, who reflects on a fondness for the Bad Lord Lovell, an infamous womanizer.   In contrast, Anonyma, the next Lady Loveall, embodies the name’s connotation of tolerance, as she dedicates her life to the work of Mary Day, a poet who advocates for a genderless world contrasting the heterosexual culture intolerant of anything queer in which the work takes place. These many interpretations show that language is slippery and often imprecise, questioning the rigid and coherent ideas readers or characters of the novel associate with names, including gender signifiers.

      Nevertheless, though the relationship between names and identity within the novel is anything but simple, names are still key to power dynamics.  The Osbern children are a fitting representation of this complexity. The family descends upon Love Hall the moment Rose’s gender is revealed, suggesting they have no life aside from biding their time and hoping the Loveall fortune somehow falls into their collective laps.  However, the youth Reliance, whose name would lead one to infer he  is the most leech-like of the bunch, is, in fact, “a less frequent visitor, because, unlike the rest, he had interests outside Love Hall”(279). On a similar note, Praisegod, whose name is suggestive of mildness, kindness, and piousness is described as “the most bitter and relentless” of the Osbern clan able to “justify any evil in the name of God”(279-83).  In contrast, Prudence, the individual who quite forcefully discovers Rose’s true sex and alternative childhood,  the sort of situation her family has been pining for and pinning all of their economic hopes upon, certainly lives up to her name . Guy, Prudence’s hyper masculine cousin and beau, also seems to embody his name through a deep investment in patriarchy. This inconsistency suggests that though names can be true summations or representations of the individuals they represent, oftentimes they are not.  As Prudence and Guy, the individuals whose characters and identities are in harmony with their names, stand to inherit the Loveall fortune many family members covet, one must wonder if there is a correlation between having a fitting name and accruing power, including economic dominance.  It does not take much of an interpretive  leap to translate these sentiments onto gender roles, as Stace repeatedly asserts that gender identity is a product of language through Rose’s struggles with the identity of girl and boy, which for much of the novel are mere words due to Rose’s lack of understanding of the biological basis of the designations and their full cultural context.  The usage of names within the Osbern family seems to symbolize that individuals whose sex matches their gender identity are more likely to be powerful members of our heterosexual society than those who struggle to fulfill their proscribed gender role, a reality that is not as archaic as the carriages of the inhabitants of Love Hall.

Names are also used within the novel as narrative tools to emphasize connections forged throughout its course. The story begins with the tale of Pharaoh, an underprivileged orphan whose only protection from the harsh streets of London is a woman whom readers can assume is an abortionist or some sort of marginalized medical professional.  This woman, a clear authority figure the boy refers to as mother, takes advantage of his timidity and apparent social impairment in order to effectively carry out her work.  This is the first instance of manipulation and exploitation of an individual through the use of the powerful tool of ignorance seen within the novel, and such strategic denials of knowledge riddle the ensuing pages, including the christening  of the main character with the name Rose.  In using the biblical name Pharaoh, Stace highlights the connection he makes between himself, as a writer, and God, and further illustrates the stakes of this proposed parallel. The writer professes his intention to create a complete and coherent picture of the world in which his life has unfolded based on “truths,” with the same authority the omniscient voice of God crafted in the first section of the book.   Nevertheless, Stace also candidly admits the limitations of the truth; after describing his sources of knowledge states, “The rest I concocted”(79).  By reintroducing the name of Pharaoh amongst these sentiments, Stace invites readers to question how Rose could possibly know the specifics of how he ended up on a trash heap, and, in this moment, realize that they also inhabit the role of one who is taken advantage of for their ignorance. One could argue all books put readers into this vulnerable position, but most try to hide this power dynamic.  Stace actually points it out, inviting readers, like the followers of the world’s many Gods, to have faith he will not leads us astray. His frankness is fun and, in my opinion, his acknowledgement of his own power does not make Rose an unreliable narrator, but increases the intimacy between reader and writer.  I, as a reader, am willing to embody the metaphorical role of Pharaoh and try to sort out his use of names for however many pages Stace can remain this interesting.

     - Tracy

Works Cited

 Stace, Wesley. Misfortune: a Novel. New York: Little, Brown and, 2005. Print

And Monster Beauty Is....?

                In her essay “Tracking the Vampire,” Sue Ellen case asserts there is a “shared identification between monster and woman in representation: since they both share the status of object, they have a special empathy between them”(390).  In portraying women and monsters as perceived threats to the masculine, and thus property man strives for rigid control over, neither position seems advantageous to the other.  Nevertheless, Braunberger evokes the term “monster beauty” with a clear positive connotation in her essay “Revolting Bodies: The Monster Beauty of Tattooed Women. Though Braunberger never explicitly defines “monster beauty,” the context in which the term is used roots it in the physical difference generated as women tattoo themselves, breaking away from the patriarchal expectation of women to maintain pure, inkless skin. Beginning with a bit of background on different types of feminist discourse, Braunberger alleges that “women need to be able to make the double move of decolonizing the ‘fashion-beauty complex’ from our minds, while allowing for the joy and exploration in the body play of masquerade and performance” and positions women tattooing themselves as a practice that accomplishes this aim by altering body aesthetics and thus generating monster beauty (2).   In a world in which women are willing to shell out hundreds of dollars for skin treatments, hair coloring, and a whole host of cosmetic nips and tucks in order to conform to masculine standards of beauty, and, in effect, make them attractive to males, it is hard to imagine why anyone would want to be viewed as monstrous by these traditional standards.  Though the standards of beauty have altered throughout time – I’m our ancestors would be shocked that women of today’s day and age pay to have their skin artificially tanned- for hundreds of years there have been expectations for women’s physical appearances that the majority of women have striven to uphold.  Nevertheless, Braunberger reveals that throughout  history women have been attracted to tattoos, giving her concept of monster beauty a timeless quality.  At first glance, the idea of monster beauty may appear to be invested in shock value, a tactic often associated, though frequently unjustly, with the feminist movement.    However, the choice of women to make themselves “monstrous” to the male gaze is much more complicated.

                First and foremost, Braunberger illustrates that tattooing is an avenue for women to express themselves, and, in doing so, take ownership over their own bodies. The particular power of the tattoo in such efforts resides in a few key characteristics of this particular bodily alteration. The use of the skin as the canvas on which such difference is generated becomes particularly meaningful, as this barrier between the outer and inner self is loaded symbolically, allowing tattoos to become a sight of introjection, which Braunberger describes as  a opening “a mediating sight between one’s physic interior and cultural exterior”(3).  Thus, tattoos become the external manifestation of one’s internalization of the cultural meanings and definitions forced onto their bodies and selves, or a manner in which women can artistically represent how patriarchy affects them personally.  This symbolic significance makes women’s acts of defining their own bodies through the active acquisition of a tattoo, which can rightfully be interpreted as an act of taking ownership of their bodies, particularly powerful.  The fact that women, in many cases, still do not feel a sense of ownership over their bodies in today’s day and age can paradoxically be seen through the lens of tattooing.  The relative modern trend of “property of” tattoos amongst women and many women’s sole view of tattoos as an offense to a husband or boyfriend are two illustrations of this sad reality to which Braunberger gestures.

                The monster beauty that is generated from tattooing is also clearly tied to the pleasure of women. Tattoos allow women to garner pleasure not only from the self expression and exertion of ownership they can facilitate, but through the subversion of social norms and redefining of feminine beauty associated with this sort of transformation.  Foucault reveals the potential for pleasure through the transgression of norms by asserting there is pleasure to be gained through the rejection of dominant power systems.  The refusal to conform to masculine standards of feminine beauty, a powerful arm of patriarchy, certainly fits this bill. The enormity of this subversion is evidenced by Braunberger’s revelation that tattooing is a domain which has fostered discourse about the difference of the male and female gaze, which Case also briefly touches on in her article. Braunberger points out: Operating on social margins, the tattooed woman and the protestor are read as excessively sexual while the pageant contestants on center stage operate within acceptable sexual parameters. At the same time, for the protestors it is those in the beauty pageant who are excessively sexualized”(14).  Thus, tattooing becomes a manner in which women can appeal to the woman’s gaze, allowing beauty to be defined by self or from a sexual perspective outside of the heterosexual confines of patriarchy.  

                So why would woman want to be a monster? Under the framework Braunberger provides, such an inversion provides the woman with both power, pleasure (which partially derives from power), and an opportunity to be viewed as beautiful outside of the confines of the male gaze. I’m not entirely sure that I can define monster beauty in all its complexity, but I am willing to give it my best shot.

Monster beauty: the pleasure and unique physical aesthetic derived from attempts of woman to claim ownership over her body through self expression and transgression of patriarchal standards of beauty.

-        Tracy

 Works Cited

Braunberger, Christine. "Revolting Bodies: The Monster Beauty of Tattooed Women."

      Feminist Formations, Volume 12, Number 2, 1-23. Summer 2000. Print.

Case, Sure Ellen. "Tracking the Vampire." writing on the body. 1997. Print.

Sedgwick's "Queer and Now": Queer Theory at its Most Tangible

In “Queer and Now” Sedgwick manages to accomplish something none of the philosophers we have studied thus far have rigorously attempted.  In exploring the definition of the designation queer and the various interpretations of political concerns of this classification, she gives readers a glimpse into the lives of those who struggle daily with the issues we have spoken about in class.  Though I am not naïve enough to have come into this class with no understanding of the political roots of Queer Theory, when working through dense and highly theoretical language it is remarkably easy to forget these issues affect all people’s daily lives, and impact many individuals in dramatic and heartbreaking ways. By evoking the images of the countless teenagers who commit suicide each year due to the manner in which society condemns their identity, the individuals for whom Christmas -a holiday “itself constituted in the image of ‘the family’- is a time of exclusion from a grand sense of unity rather than a source of joy, and the people who struggle to hold onto life in the face of physically devastating illnesses while simultaneously having death wished upon them from members of society who regard them as filth, Sedgwick ensures her readers never lose sight of the tangible stakes of her argument (6)  As the introduction comes to a close, her meditation on the anti-intellectualism of our age made me realize just how much her ideas affect my own life in ways I never had realized.

In the last segment of her argument, Sedgwick meditates on “political correctness” and the origin of this term.   She asserts the political right of our nation has succeeded in lumping everything from Marxism to Queer Theory under “the rubric of ‘politically correct’” in “a coup of cynical slovenliness unmatched since the artistic and academic purges of Germany and Russia in the thirties”(18).  Designating theoretical perspectives which contradict their own beliefs under this terminology is brilliant to say the least.  People hate politics.  The word politics and its many variations have come to signify dishonesty and ruthless self-interest within our culture, immediately evoking a sense of distrust in many Americans.  Labeling courses of study under the heading politically correct is an easy way to generate or amplify the distrust, suspicion, or ignorance many American have for these already marginalized viewpoints.  However, the aspect of this assertion I find truly alarming is the hint Sedgwick provides that this covertly hateful discourse is ingrained within and acting upon the universities of our nation, institutions which are supposed to serve as safe havens for all ideas with academic merit regardless of their political capital.  Sedgwick ends her introduction on the note that “Newsweek pontificated that under the reign of multiculturalism in colleges, ‘it would not be enough for a student to refrain from insulting homosexuals….He or she would be expected to…study their literature and culture alongside that of Plato, Shakespeare, and Locke”(20).  The dismissal of texts falling under the discipline of Queer Theory and other stigmatized disciplines as an obligatory read in order to maintain a false sense of societal equality rather than an opportunity to explore texts in which meanings do not “line up tidily with each other” and “invest those sights with fascination and love,” is insulting to the people who creates these texts and appreciate these texts for both their artistic merit and messages of tolerance.

It is possible, and quite likely, that this portion of this article hit home for me because I am currently reading Homer’s The Iliad, a classic which could easily be take the place of the work of Locke or Shakespeare as book which is allegedly more worthy of study than more modern works within the realm of Queer Theory, in one my English courses here at Michigan State University.  I do love The Iliad, and I believe there is something about the humanity of the character Achilles that strikes me as timeless. When my professor asks us why young scholars throughout the world are still reading this text, I usually base my reply around the feeling The Iliad generates that there is something constant in human nature.  As I worked through the text, the fact that the Trojans and Achaeans featured within the epic glorified the past and their genealogical roots became abundantly clear.  Throughout Book 2 of the epic, the descriptions of the fighting men assert that though these men are glorious, they are not quite as strong or valiant as the fathers who preceded them.  This sentiment is reinforced by the usage of epithets that actually define these men in terms of their ancestors; Achilles himself is introduced as “Peleus’ son” in works first line(Homer 1).  In regarding these classics as the greatest literature to which students of our era have access and ascribing our own meanings onto characters who are removed from us historically by a temporal distance that is difficult to grasp, are we romanticizing the past in a way similar to these warriors? If so, could this action be partially motivated by an effort to hold onto what we perceive to be the norms of the past? The question is certainly as troubling one.

- Tracy

Works Cited

Homer, Robert Fagles, and Bernard Knox. The Iliad. New York, N.Y., U.S.A.:
     Viking. 1990. Print.

Sedgwick, Eve. "Queer and Now." 1993. Print.

More circles, More anxiety: An Exploration of Michel Foucault’s The History of Sexuality

After delving further into Michel Foucault’s The History of Sexuality, I was forced to continue questioning the widespread and generally accepted assertion that western society is sexually repressed, an idea I had previously considered nothing less than indisputable fact.  Throughout Part One of the work, Foucault investigates this theory of sexuality, questioning both the origin of the guilt we seem to harbor in regard to our perceived sexual repression and the legitimacy of the repressive hypothesis itself, eventually concluding as Part Two of the book draws to a close that “Modern society is perverse, not in spite of its Puritanism or as if from backlash provoked by its hypocrisy; it is, in actual fact, and directly, perverse”(47).  In effect, Foucault positions the constant meditation upon and ardent belief in the repressive hypothesis as merely an excuse for society’s sexual perversion.  He asserts society’s obsession with the repressive hypothesis has actually glorified  the discourse surrounding sex as subversive action against an exaggerated, if not nonexistent power system,  allowing discourse about sex to multiply as we “other Victorians” seek “to utter truths and promise bliss, to link together enlightenment, liberation, and manifold pleasures”(7).  In short, though we would like to think we talk about sex as an act of rebellion, in realty we do so because we have an insatiable curiosity for all things involving sex.

  Foucault discusses the pleasure which arises from the subversion of authority, using the mental patient as one example of the pleasure potentials involved in authoritative systems.  He asserts the confessional discourse of modern psychiatry generates a complex dynamic between power and pleasure by allowing the psychiatrist to derive pleasure from both exploring the sexuality of the patient and exerting authority upon the aforementioned sexual behavior, while simultaneously allowing the patient, who practices some form of alternative sexuality, to derive both pleasure and power from the subversion of authority through resistance to the psychiatrist’s questioning .  As “ these attractions, these evasions, these circular incitements have traced around bodies and sexes, not boundaries not to be crossed, but perpetual spirals of power and pleasure,” the repressed and repressor dynamic  generates perpetual pleasure, seemingly positioning itself as the optimal relationship for human enjoyment(45). Though shared power and pleasure intertwine the individuals on the opposite ends of this spectrum and Foucault asserts the an individual’s role within “this game” is fluid, society seems to put a lot of stock into strict differentiation between the individuals occupying the roles of those who strive to regulate alternative sexual practices (an example of repressors within Foucault’s proposed power system) and those who practice alternative sexual practices (an example of the repressed within this system).

Judith Butler explores such urges for differentiation within Gender Trouble, and more specifically the section “Bodily Inscriptions, Per formative Subversions.”  Butler, in exploring the ideas of Kristeva, presents the theory that “ the repudiation of the bodies for their sex, sexuality, and/or color is an ‘expulsion’ followed by a ‘repulsion’ that founds and consolidates culturally hegemonic identities along sex/race/sexuality axes of discrimination” and that through this “excreting” of self “others become shit” (182). Returning to the example of the therapist and the “sexually disturbed patient,” is the patient “the shit” by the therapist’s standards because he or she is a rejected part of the therapist’s self?  This seems plausible, as rampant curiosity about alternative sexual practices likely plays some role in the therapist’s pleasure generated in response to “the physical proximity and interplay of intense sensations” which characterizes the patient and doctor encounter in the wake of the “medicalization of the sexually peculiar” (44).   Could this curiosity stem from the desire to understand oneself and be nothing more than an act of self exploration?   Is the complex system of power regulating sexuality somehow rooted in a search for self that the expulsion of certain sexual urges and identities has caused?  Does the desire to ignore knowledge of this denial of self somehow contribute to the positioning of repression as the sole lens through which sexuality is examined within society, creating another circle of sorts?

Quite frankly, I now feel some strange sort of guilt for not questioning the somehow undeniable reality of sexual repression before, or even ever really thinking deeply about something I’ve always regarded as truth. Foucault has made me feel guilty for not thinking, for letting the conventional wisdom of others stand in as my own beliefs and not questioning that the prevailing ideology could be misguided or incomplete.  I now find myself anxious that many of my assumptions are wrong, or are merely explanations masquerading some psychological phenomenon or fundamental truth.   In turn, my level of anxiety generated by this fear also bothers me; do I really have this little faith in the mental capacity of myself and fellow members of my own species?  The whole thing is very circular, just like the systems of power Foucoult asserts have defined sexuality and its discourse. The structure of his theories have somehow begun to play on my emotions, but instead of admitting to being the most impressionable human being alive, I’ll chalk it up to the strength of his argument. Kudos Foucault. 

- Tracy

Works Cited

Butler, Judith Butler. Gender Trouble, Feminism And The Subversion Of Identity.

     Routledge Classics, 2006. Print.

Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality: Volume 1 An Introduction. Random House, Inc

      1990. Print.