In
a recent, in-bed, just-woke-up, Facebook browse, I read an update from a family
friend about Wonder Woman. He and his wife had just watched it for a second
time. He loved it, maybe even more the second time around. I drank it up—I
reveled in the knowledge that men were enjoying Wonder Woman as a superhero
movie. His assessment included no caveats—it was not good for a women’s film;
it was just good. It felt like a victory every time a man I knew praised the
film, as if the proof I’d long been waiting for was in front of my eyes—Wonder
Woman was a movie that could be enjoyed by all people, regardless of gender.
But then I read the comments on his
status, and they told a different, disturbing narrative. Sprinkled among the
comments that were genuinely discussing the film, multiple people sidestepped
the conversation by accusing him of “having a crush on Gal” or asking “does
your wife know about your crush?”
His replies were good-natured. He
responded that both he and his wife
had crushes on her—there would have been no use denying it, either way. And
she’s a good woman to have a crush on. She’s powerful, talented, stunning, and
as Wonder Woman she portrays all that is good in the world.
But all of that is beside the
point. Her crushability isn’t her purpose. She was the protagonist of a major
superhero film, one meant to tug at heartstrings and wow with the promised
sequences of action and intensity, while reminding us of a hero’s inherent
humanity. She was just like Captain America, in his origin story. She was like
Thor, in his. The list goes on. She was a hero. Plain and simple.
My childhood was a scattered haze of
books, late night movies with my mom, skinned knees, and wishing I was older. I
enjoyed the freeing ignorance that my parents cultivated—as a kid I had no idea
that being a woman was seen by some as a defect. Raised to believe I could be
anything I wanted, I didn’t understand what people meant when they talked about
sexism. I believed I was invincible, because I’d been taught that I was. My parents
were my teachers, and my subjects were the female heroes and role models I
spent my days and nights learning about.
Among Laura Ingalls Wilder, Nora
Ephron, Meg Ryan, and Ann M. Martin, there was Diana Prince. Her red and blue
outfit, her lasso of truth, her invisible airplane—these were the accoutrements
of my childhood dreams. I craved her abilities, and although I knew I was
nowhere near magical, I learned the most important lesson of all—her true power
was her love of justice. Unlike other superheroes I occasionally watched,
Wonder Woman’s stories weren’t about beating up baddies—she wasn’t interested
in showing off a million cool stunts while maintaining her effortless hair. She
genuinely wanted to make the world a better place. And I loved her for that.
How many times has a man or a woman
expressed excitement or praise over a new Marvel film in which Chris Evans plays
the central character? Probably a lot. How many times has a woman been mocked
for watching an Avengers movie because she thinks Captain America is hot? It’s
bound to happen once in a while, but my guess is that it’s not all that common.
It’s a superhero movie, and the default is male, and it is assumed to be
watchable by anybody.
I have never been asked if I only
watched Thor for the eye candy. It is assumed that I, like all other people,
can enjoy the movies with the beautiful men because they are movies, not
because of the giant biceps or the washboard abs.
Those Facebook comments were not the
first time I’ve encountered this strange attitude towards Wonder Woman. Snide
comments from men to other men of “you just liked it because she’s hot,” or the
oft overheard “I’d watch anything with Gal. Have you seen her?” And on and on, ignoring cinematic merit in favor of her
stunning figure. They are not lauding the character for being a great role
model, or praising Gal for the fact that she shot an entire action sequence
while five months pregnant, and still nailed it. She is hot—this is the only
important factor.
Even worse are the comments from
both men and women to women, accusing them of only liking the movie because the
main character is a woman—an accusation rarely lobbed at men for watching the
Bourne films, or virtually any other action film ever. Why? Because the default
has always been male. We need no special reason to watch the default.
I think I spun in a million circles
trying to become Diana Prince. Around and around I went, landing back at the
same spot over and over, and where I stopped I definitely knew. I figured if I
made enough circles, I’d get there eventually. The same logic told me that if I
held my breath and went underwater in the bathtub I’d eventually become a
mermaid just like Ariel.
I never accomplished the
transformation. I never found myself with bulletproof bracelets, or the
spangled outfit, decorated and ready for war. My hair was messy, not coiffed.
My legs were chubby and covered with the bruises and cuts that are badges of
childhood summers.
I was not suddenly a superhero in a
costume, nor a tall, fierce woman, ready to make a mark on mankind, ready to
change the world.
But this was only one of many rude
awakenings. My second was in college, when I began to see that underneath the
layers of confidence and power that had been pasted onto my skin, others still
saw a woman in a man’s world.
The third was when men I dated, men
I trusted, treated me like a physical filler for their hopes and dreams, and
their desires too.
I had to build new armor. I had to
spin in new circles. I had to make my own lasso of truth and my own invisible
airplane. I constructed them using words, using craft, using art, using my
voice, using the dredges of confidence that I’d been born to own.
I was never Diana Prince. I never
had the gadgets or the uniform. But maybe, I could be a superhero in my own
way.
It isn’t just women who clutch their
tickets happily in sticky theater seats, gazing at the screen in anticipation
of finally finally finally seeing themselves staring back. It happens to anyone
that isn’t the default. Any film that is “too black” or “too female” or too
anything that deviates. We should be remembering that a superhero film is still
a superhero film, no matter the cast. They are superhero movies.
They are movies about being heroes,
about saving the world, whether that world believes in them or not.
