As keen readers of this blog will have had occasion to notice, the most recent season of Doctor Who has not exactly met with my approval. That being so, and with the marvelous advent of A Doctor World to inspire me, I decided to rewatch the whole new series – Eccleston, Tennant and Smith – with an eye to understanding the show’s development. Right now, I’m midway through Season 3, and in keeping with the seriousness of my self-appointed task, I’ve been taking handwritten notes on the structure, themes and byplay of every episode. Specifically, I’m interested in the depictions of female characters. How much agency do they have? Are their odds of survival comparable to that of their male counterparts? How do they die, and under what circumstances? Are they villains or allies? Do they rescue other characters as often as being rescued? How many episodes pass the Bechdel test?

It’s this latter question which has occupied most of my thoughts. How heavily should I rely on it? Though undeniably useful, the Bechdel is far from being the ultimate arbiter of narrative – or even feminist – success. Passing it does not, for instance, guarantee that the female characters in question are three-dimensional, believable human beings, nor does it protect against thematic sexism. Pass or fail, however, the results are always interesting – not just because of what they say about particular stories, but because of how the test itself reflects our culture of storytelling. At first glance, it’s utterly trite and obvious to point out that every day, everywhere in the world, human beings pass the Bechdel: after all, half the human population is female, and in accordance with the fact that we are all (as it were) named characters, the overwhelming majority of our conversations, if transposed to a narrative context, would pass. And yet, despite the obviousness of this fact, a disgusting number of movies, TV shows, books and plays all fail. Looked at as a purely narrative problem, it’s a disconcerting dissonance with reality. Looked at as a human problem, however, it’s a travesty.

As per Gail Simone’s observations on women in refrigerators, there are any number of reasons why individual writers might choose to structure a story such that there are no female characters, or only one female character; or why, given the presence of two or more such women, they don’t have occasion to speak to one another; or why, if they do, it’s only about a man. The limit of the Bechdel is the ease with which its detractors can argue – correctly – that the inclusion of women characters who talk about things will not automatically improve a story: not on a thematic level, if the point is to allay concerns about sexism, and not on a narrative level, if the point is to fix a plot. The failure of this objection, however, is that it willfully misconstrues the inclusion of women to be meant as a panacea. It’s not about instituting what amounts to a storywide affirmative action policy, because the suggestion has never been that women, by themselves, make stories better, or fairer, or anything other than stories with women in them, just as stories which lack women, or contain few of them, aren’t innately inferior. Rather, the point has been to ask why, if we believe our society, culture and ethics to be egalitarian – and, more, if we personally support these ideals – our stories say something else.

Consider the following hypothetical instance of a film centered on the adventures of a male lead, Guy, and his female love interest, Gal. Already, Gal is defined by her relationship to Guy: because the narrative fulcrum rests on Guy specifically, Gal’s presence is justified by her participation in his story. (There’s no reason why this scenario can’t work in the reverse without changing the genre – and yet, how much more common is it for stories with female love interests to be action-oriented adventures, while stories with male love interests are billed as romantic comedies?) Thus, Gal’s only investment in the plot comes through her association with Guy, making it much more likely that he, and not she, will take the lead in future plot-oriented conversations – after all, it’s Guy who needs answers, while Gal is just there for the ride. Obviously, that’s a simplification of matters: in save-the-world plots, for instance, the ultimate stakes affect everyone, while personal survival is a pretty strong incentive for even the most reluctant, dragged-along love interest to sit up and take an interest. Assuming Guy and Gal encounter other women in their travels, either as villains or comrades, there’s every reason why Gal might talk to them, and they to her.

Except, more often than not, they won’t – which is where we hit the gender snag. Because in instances where Guy is the protagonist, Gal’s character development matters less than his: not because she’s a girl (or at least, we hope not) but because it’s his story, and any conversations which don’t include or mention him are going to be viewed as extraneous to the plot. Ignoring the false economy of a storytelling style which jettisons secondary character development in the name of streamlining – and ignoring, too, the fact that female love interests are so deeply ingrained as an action movie archetyps that their very presence can feel like last-minute shoehorning – this puts considerable pressure on any fem/fem conversation to be relevant to the action; and if the writer wants to really showcase Guy’s intelligence, strength and resourcefulness, then having two other characters think up a plan, chart a course of action or otherwise save the day will only serve to undermine his specialness. Throw in the necessity of keeping Guy and Gal together for most of the plot – you can’t kindle sparks if the flints don’t touch – and just like that, you’ve practically eliminated any opportunity for Gal and Gal2 to have a conversation. Trying to force them together would just be another sort of shoehorning; and anyway, what does it matter? It’s just a story.

All of which is, frankly, bullshit. Characterisation shouldn’t be the sole privilege of protagonists. Male heroes don’t require a monopoly on good ideas and snappy dialogue to be viewed as heroic – and if you think they do, you’re probably part of the problem. Women shouldn’t be token characters: I love a good, sassy romance as much as the next person, but there’s a profound difference between a love interest whose only investment in the plot is their attachment to the hero, and a fully functioning character who develops into a love interest. As for the age-old argument about some eras, professions and settings being necessarily male dominated, I put it to you that if Deadwood, a well-researched, historically anchored show about life in a lawless town on the American frontier can pass the Bechdel test with ease, then any film the sole premise of which is Shit Gets Blown Up should be able to do it backwards and upside down, particularly if the setting constitutes a departure from everyday reality in any way, shape or form. Which is another way of saying that if you’re willing to break the established laws of physics and human endurance such that the male hero can get blown up, tortured and beaten shortly before running approximately ten miles at top-speed during a thrilling laser gun battle, you can probably stretch to having a female character whose capabilities extend beyond the rigours of looking decorative.

Unless you think women shouldn’t really have key roles in action movies, in which case, see above, re: being part of the problem.

All of which brings me to my sudden inability to think of J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth as a realistic fantasy world (which sounds like a non sequitur, but bear with me). I’ll be brutally honest: watching the How It Should Have Ended clip for The Lord of the Rings has not done wonders for my perception of its plot, such that when I sat down this evening to watch the extended version of The Fellowship of the Ring, I found myself wanting to yell at Gandalf to just GO GET THE FUCKING EAGLES. But as I tried to settle into the narrative, I kept asking myself: where are the women? I don’t mean Arwen, Eowyn and Galadriel, who are all wonderful characters despite their lack of screen time: I mean, where are the wives and sisters and mothers? Why, when the succession is so important, is neither Faramir nor Boromir married? Where are the wives of Denethor and Theoden, the mothers of Arwen, Eowyn and Frodo? Why are so many races – the Ents, the Orcs, the Uruk-Hai, the Goblins, the Dwarves – drawn as if they were all male? For a setting which is otherwise so rich in cultural and historical detail, this reads as a serious problem. It’s not just that the trilogy fails the Bechdel test; it’s that the lack of women means we have very little idea of how that society treats them, beyond the basic, obvious knowledge that there must be wives and sisters and mothers of some sort, even though almost every woman in a position to occupy such a niche is either conveniently dead or mysteriously absent. And when, in The Silmarillion, Tolkien does venture to write female characters, it’s almost always in a romantic, devotional context: women who died to support their brothers or husbands, or who were pursued against their will, or who tragically fell in love with someone they shouldn’t (or couldn’t) have.

Which is where I start to wonder if the absence of female characters in Middle Earth is less a species of exclusionary sexism than it is a tacit acknowledgement on Tolkien’s part that, for all he was trying to write a magical, romanticised version of the medieval period, he didn’t know how to do so in a way that would benefit his women the same way it did his men. The happy resolutions to the lives of Luthien, Arwen and Eowyn all hinge on partnerships with men of their own choosing, men with whom they are genuinely in love; and yet a scholar of Tokien’s standing can’t have been unaware of how rare an occurrence that would have been, historically speaking. Perhaps, then, the wives and mothers of so many characters are absent as a preventative against the acknowledgement of exactly that problem; of the fact that one can believe in the restorative magic of feudalism and the aesthetic stylings of chivalry for only so long as one either postpones the question of women’s happiness or takes its existence for granted. As compassionately as Tolkien paints Eowyn’s desire for glory, and as determinedly as he makes Luthien the saviour and rescuer of Beren, the latter stance seems less likely than the former. But in dodging the issue, he undermines the story – because while his male characters are allowed to ask questions about their purpose in life, expressing bitterness at their circumstances and feeling haunted by unwanted duty, he cannot dare let the women do likewise, or else the whole myth of Middle Earth’s glory would come crashing down around him. The elves, conveniently enough, are exempt from this dilemma, presumably on the basis that if everyone in a given society is granted magical supremacy, immortality and eternal beauty as a matter of course, then unhappiness as a result of imposed gender profiling probably won’t be an issue. But humankind are not, which is why, despite how well-drawn she is, Eowyn’s fears are masculinised: her biggest concern is being denied a chance at battle, and not that Theoden or Eomer will see her married off, even though the structure of Tolkien’s society dictates that one must be at least as distinct a possibility as the other.

And that’s why I’ve lost my faith in Middle Earth: because I cannot reconcile Tolkien’s aesthetic mood of beauty, nobility and contemplation with the necessary ugliness and bias of male-dominated feudalism. Which explains why I’m such a fan of George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, adapted recently to the HBO series A Game of Thrones: all the history and pageantry is still there, all the chivalrous words and noble aspirations, but we still get to see the women – their desires, struggles, success and persecution – without recourse to either convenient absenteeism or rosy-lensed love. Call it gritty fantasy or nihilism if you must, but no matter how pure and glorious your ambitions, it’ll take a lot to convince me that a standard medieval setting will lack the problems of forced marriage, rape and battery – or worse, that these things don’t matter – just because you choose to emphasise chivalrous conduct.

So, to recap: if you find yourself steering clear of female/female dialogue because:

a) women have no place in your story;

b) it doesn’t feel plot-relevant;

c) you don’t want to develop your female characters; or

d) the women might question the logic of a world you want your male characters to enjoy,

then I would humbly suggest that you are, in fact, part of the problem. Which is why the Bechdel test matters: not because all stories need women, but because the manner of their absence shouldn’t contribute to a culture of inequality.

Comments
  1. Maggie says:

    Yes! Ridiculous that the movies of LOTR were faithful to that regressive aspect of the books (and the race stuff–yikes) while changing so much else. Tolkien maybe had an excuse, but Jackson did not.

    I could not stand the first episode of Game of Thrones because of the constant aggressive sexualized subjugation of women, so it’s interesting to hear that the books are so much better. Yuck, that show actually made me sick, it was so over the top with it. And I read and watch plenty of sci-fi and fantasy so it’s not like rampant misogyny is anything new.

    Very curious to hear more from you about the latest season of Doctor Who, which I found completely appalling as far as storytelling, story logic, consistency, and of course once again the aggressive sexualized subjugation of women. Why, people, why? Why is Amy treated worse than a lab rat? This is new to the series as far as I can tell. I went back and watched some of the David Tennant episodes recently and it was quite a shock to see the difference. There was respect for women, the characters, the storytelling, and the audience, just to begin with.

    Dear oh dear. Anyway. Well said!

    • fozmeadows says:

      I really recommend A Game of Thrones – I can see how the series might put you off for that reason (though the female characterisation gets really strong, in keeping with the books), but plotwise, it’s actually very close to the original material. The difference is that where the show comes across as exploitative at such moments, the books are much more concerned with agency.

      I’ve written a few other pieces about my dissatisfaction with the most recent Doctor Who episodes, for pretty much the reasons you describe. Will definitely be writing another post about the reboot as a whole once I’ve got back up to date and can compare everything properly!

  2. Maggie says:

    That’s great to hear! I *want* to like the books. But….

    I always try to imagine substituting archaic racism for sexism in things like this. Fantasy movies and tv are much more careful about blatant racism, but then put a lot of energy into making sure women are stomped on or stupid or useless, or all three. It’s, er, upsetting. Game of Thrones was the worst example I’ve seen of this.

    Here’s the thing: if it’s historical, then we at least have the excuse that this is how it really was. Rome? Okay, whatever. Medieval Europe? Not so much. I did my graduate work in medieval literature and history and it’s just not the world imagined in fantasy, especially as far as women are concerned.

    But some fantasy seems to grab hold of the ugliest imagined misogyny and racism and play them to the hilt, and I really do not understand why. I suppose the answer lies in the term “fantasy,” eh? For some, a world where all the women are treated like property and grabbed by the hair and mounted in every other scene is a fantasy world.

    You can see why I’m not running out to read those books. Is that aspect from the books? I didn’t see the slightest bit of agency for women in the first episode of Game of Thrones. I wanted to like it, but it made me ill.

    • fozmeadows says:

      So, OK. I want to draw a distinction here between narratives which condone sexism and misogyny (either tacitly or openly), and narratives which use sexism and misogyny expressly to point out how awful such behaviours are. The books fall into the latter category. Given how closely the adaptation is to the source material, and bearing in mind that I’m a fan I’d contend that the show does, too. However: being a visual medium, and given the undeniable titillation factor of certain scenes, I agree that the show has, at times, severely undermined that aspect of the storytelling.

      To take a specific example from episode one: Cersei and Jaime’s sex scene is in the books, but it’s not explicitly described, because the chapter is written from Bran’s point of view. He just overhears them, glimpses something he doesn’t quite understand, is pulled inside the tower and then thrown out. The grabbing and mounting scenes (to borrow your phrase) are, in most instances, an invention of the TV show, by which I mean: the books have a lot of sex, but the sex scenes aren’t rendered pornographically so much as perfunctorily, and there’s almost always something else going on in the narrative to justify them.

      The biggest change between the books and the show is in the age of the younger characters. In the books, the Stark girls, Arya and Sansa, are 9 and 11 respectively. But for the show, everyone’s been aged upwards, so that Arya is closer to 11, and Sansa is more like 15. Similarly, Daenerys, who in the show looks about 18 or so, is 12 at the start of the first book, turning 13 somewhere in the middle of events. What happens to Dany in the show – the forced marriage and pregnancy – is still exactly what happens to her in the books; the difference being that, in the original, we’re horrified at her circumstances, because of her age. (There’s a good summary of this change at http://www.overthinkingit.com/2011/05/10/game-of-thrones-feminism/.)

      What I’m getting at is, the books are still full of sexism and terrible things happening to women, but written in such a way as to make very plain that these are awful things, that we should not be titillated by them, and in a context where the female characters nonetheless retain or develop agency. Daenerys is the best example of this: she starts out powerless, but starts to grow into her authority and confidence, until she ends up being one of the most powerful characters in the series. We have warrior women – Arya, who you’ve met, and Brienne of Tarth, who should appear in Season 2 – and women who play at politics with the powers at their disposal – prominently Cersei and Catelyn, but later Sansa, too.

      So, yeah. Obviously I’m a fan. HBO tends to like its gratuitous nudity and sex scenes, which are true to the books in places, embroidered in others and totally new in some, but while the visuals are exploitative at times, the female characters themselves retain power, develop strong personalities, and go an awesome plot arcs. The point being, if you’re uneasy about the show, I do recommend the originals.

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