#i know they have really taken off because i just watched a beard silhouette brand guy mansplain his poor date into going paddleboarding

[themanwhowouldbefruit]

i'm soooo glad those standing paddle boards have become the new super insufferable outdoorsy hipster thing to do like....finally the punishment (standing on the paddle board) fits the crime (being an insufferable hipster) and mx.kayak has been freed from the clutches of evil

[5lazarus]

White Nights, Ch. 1: The Balcony

A year or so after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a brief vacation from mapping weaknesses in the Veil to Val Royeaux, and brings a new lover with her. She steps out to her balcony to enjoy the melancholy night, glances over curiously when a man steps out to the balcony attached to the room next to her, and freezes. It looks like the Dread Wolf had the same idea.

read on AO3 here

read Ch. 2: The Docks here, and Ch. 3: The Broadsheet here.

Sweat drying on her skin, she fishes a crumbled nightgown out of her pack and makes herself presentable. Anders snoozes on the bed, blissed into sleep. He surrenders himself so easily to passion. Lavellan watches him sleep, envious. She has always thought too much.

She finds the leather pouch of tobacco cut with elfroot a former lover made her, prepares her pipe, and opens the shutters to the balcony to enjoy it properly. She lights it, smiling to herself. She has never really gotten a vacation, but under Divine Victoria’s new law, mages enjoy an untold-of freedom of movement. And while she has left the infrastructure behind her, she still has the money and prestige. Enjoy the world while it still lasts, he said. Lavellan snorts and smokes her pipe. She has embraced it utterly, the cool night clean on her skin. Below her the streets of Val Royeaux babble, and she can smell the ocean. They took a room a few streets from the Alienage: that too is new. The Inquisitor, retired or not, is different from other elves, even when she has that apostate lover in tow. If anything, the addition of Anders endears her to the gossips of Val Royeaux. She has always given them something to talk about. She traces out the Pleiades and smiles. An adoring lover, a sea coast, and one more day off? What more can she ask? The shutters of the balcony next to her rustle and she glances over to see a bearded man step out, face cast in shadow. Lavellan notes the ears: another one of the People made good. He’s clutching a bottle of wine. She admires his silhouette--Anders is well-built but not particularly shapely--as he sits on the edge of the balcony and pours himself a glass. He lights himself a candle and raises the glass to his lips. He glances at her curiously and freezes. Lavellan takes the pipe from her lips, iced under his gaze. The rosy post-coital warmth disappears as if she’s just leapt into the ocean. Solas’ lips move soundlessly as he tries and fails to articulate their mutual horror. She thinks dimly, at least I still make him speechless. She should have put her prosthetic back on. She says, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Hand trembling, he raises his glass to his lips. He does not spill a drop. “I am leaving in the morning. I will leave earlier.” He drinks and sets the glass with a clink back onto the balcony’s edge. Still he stares at her. She supposes she looks just-fucked, because she is--hair ruffled, skin reddened, and nightgown thrown on carelessly. Anders likes to sleep nude. Lavellan laughs. “Wonderful. Hilarious. Three years Leliana has tried to track you,” and succeeded, but she will not tell him that, “and I find you on the opposite balcony, undressed. I suppose you thought the hair would be enough of a disguise.” Solas smiles. “It has worked before.” It hasn’t, but again she will not tell him that. “Certainly.” She puffs on her pipe and exhales smoke, watching it drift towards the street opposite. She can see light spilling behind the shutters of the floor opposite. Someone else like to fuck with the lights on. Lavellan smiles thinly. She remembers finding him in a tavern with Varric and Hawke, not too long about the Exalted Council. They had managed to find three of his eluvians in Ostwick and Kirkwall, thanks to his arrogance, and reclaim one of them. The beard does not disguise his face--or his swagger. She closes her eyes: unless this is all an elaborate double-bluff. What would Keeper Deshanna say? The wolf chews off his own leg to escape the trap. He has his back to the door, but both of his arms--and he can turn people to stone now, Morrigan confirmed. That would not be the worst thing he has done to her, though, would it? He is staring at her remaining hand, at the sylvanwood ring she now wears--a gift from Merrill, who said she needed it more. Lavellan laughs bitterly. “A Keeper’s ring,” she says. “I suppose you would not know the story. A relic of the People, to remind its leaders of the Dread Wolf’s betrayal. Though it was a lesson I never learned, and was read too late besides.” Solas flinches. “I had hoped it was a wedding ring.” He glances towards her room. From his perspective, she supposes, the unmade bed and the man in it are just visible, if he cranes his neck a bit, which he is doing. She is tired of looking at her life from his perspective. “Fuck you,” Lavellan says. She lays the pipe down carefully and half-closes the shutters. If Anders wakes up, he’ll see her--but Solas will not see him. But Justice will not allow him to attack an unarmed man, as if the Dread Wolf is ever without his weapons. “My apologies,” he says. “That was inappropriate. I...I have hoped you have been happy.” She looks at him incredulously. “Which is why you stalk my dreams at night, exactly like the nightmare of Dalish legends. To hope that I’m happy.” She gestures grandly. “Which is why you appear here, at my balcony, on my one vacation--” “An unfortunate coincidence,” Solas cuts in coldly. “And I will go. You know it has never been my intention to cause you pain.” He turns away and picks up his glass. “You took my arm off,” Lavellan says. Solas stops. “I didn’t realize that was an accident.” He turns around and to her amusement he is smiling wryly. He rubs his forehead. “It was eating at your bone marrow. But the next time an ancient artifact of untold power starts a cancer in your body, I will let it fester. Thank you for letting me know.” Lavellan watches him coolly and imagines rubbing the hot ashes of her tobacco into his face. Maybe it will leave a mark like the Anchor did, before it melted the skin from her muscle and disabled her permanently. It had stunk. None of the salves Vivienne had concocted had soothed it. The Anchor’s heat would melt through the leather of every glove she hid it in too, towards the end. She had known for a long time she would need to amputate it. She just had not thought it would take her whole forearm. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she says. She knows she should let him leave, but she wants to know. “If you knew it would--fester. Why did you leave without warning me?” Fear lances through Solas’ eyes, flickering in the candlelight. “I am not a cruel man,” he says instead. “That is not an answer.” She smiles unpleasantly, sitting down at the balcony’s edge, and crosses her legs. His eyes trace up her body. He looks afraid. She knows how he likes to use her, to defend himself and to flagellate himself against the fundamental truths of his being. The Dalish have pegged him right. He is a cruel man. He is a monster. He lost his humanity millennia ago, sacrificed on the grave of Mythal. Morrigan told her what the Well whispers. If the evanuris deserved untold punishment for killing the All-Mother, what is his due? The perpetual bleeding wound of what he did to her. Her stump itches, and she scratches at it pointedly: it has long since scabbed over, but he does like to pick at his wounds. “You have your life,” Solas says testily. “You have your freedom, and all the riches of the Inquisition. You have the time left to you. What else can I give to you?” Anger twists in her so viscerally she coughs at the bile rising in her throat. She steadies herself. “I am not your fucking petitioner, Solas. You’re no god of mine. You never were.” She stares back defiantly. After the Council, once Morrigan clarified the vallaslin did not bind her to the will of Mythal, she had Deshanna draw her brand brighter. She likes it. Mythal had watched her People suffer, killed by those who would sacrifice them. Her vallaslin is a promise: vengeance, for the world. All her gods have long been dead, and she is the last one standing. The agents of Fen’Harel have found little support amongst the Dalish and the elves of the Free Marches, Ferelden, and Orlais. Solas says, “I’m sorry.” A breeze drifts cold from the sea, and Lavellan shivers. This nightgown is meant to be taken off, not kept on. She glances inside. Anders is still asleep. He won’t be upset when she explains this to him, he’s had his fair share of bad exes--and been the bad ex. She has few illusions about him. He eases something in her, for now. He’s more attached to her than she is to him. She likes it that way, to hold someone loosely for once. He will not be the one who leaves. He idolizes her a little bit, but he doesn’t idealize her like Solas did. Solas follows her gaze and purses his lips. He says, “I am keeping you from your rest.” Neither of them move. He wears an ugly expression, made worse by the glowstones inlaid at the edge of the building, the candle still flickering on the balcony. She has always enjoyed the harsh angularity of his face and the starkness of his emotions. He seethes with discontent. Sometimes he channels it productively, passionately, but she can never forget that this is the man who stared at the Nightmare boredly, but raged at the useless Kirkwall mages. There is a foot between their balconies, and she is acutely conscious of the space. He could vaunt over it easily. So could she. Ugily he stares at her, burning her visage into him. She wonders: does he like what he sees? Does that matter? Of course it does. Uncomfortable, she taps her pipe against the balcony. She shakes her head, and smiling, says, “You still haven’t answered my question.” “What is there left to say?” Solas clenches his hands. “You have taken my measure. Why do you need me to stay what you already know?” “Because I don’t,” Lavellan says. “Because I want you to admit it. You left me to die in pain--” Solas steps closer, distressed, but she throws her arm up. “Don’t interrupt! You told me you loved me. You fucked me. You,” she starts laughing, thinking about Crestwood, “you brought me to a swamp to show me ‘how much I meant to you.’” She is grinning now, staring at him. Solas looks wretched: as if that means something. “You tried to reenact your savior fantasy with me--’ar lasa mala revas,’ my ass. And when I objected, you left me. While claiming I meant the world to you. And then you let my arm rot off.” “There were--considerations.” “Corypheus,” Lavellan says bitterly. “The Blight that is coming. The decay that is spreading in the Emprise, despite how deep we dig. The wakened Titan. And, at the root of this all, Mythal.” Solas freezes. His eyes widen in surprise and he beams at her--but as quickly as the smile flashes across his face, it is gone. He arranges himself neutrally again, pointedly tucking his arms behind his back. That little familiar gesture still amuses her, as much as it makes her sad. She had thought he did that to keep from touching her. Even the gulf between them is not enough. He still wants to reach for her--he won’t, of course, but it pings her vanity to know he wants to. He utters, “Well done.” Lavellan says, “You’re a patronizing prick, do you know that?” “You certainly aren’t the first who’ve told me that,” Solas replies, amused. Despite himself, he has crept to the very edge of the balcony. She reaches for him and he takes her hand, helping her to her feet. He puts his hand on her waist to steady her. The embrace is clumsy; there is a foot between them and three storeys below them. She does not let go of his hand, he does not let of her waist, and when she looks up Solas bites his lip. “Fenhedis,” he says, and kisses her. She grips his arm to keep from falling. Kissing him is so easy. She does not need to think, but sighs raggedly into the embrace. They break the kiss but do not pull away. He rests his forehead against hers, awkwardly bracing his knee against the opposite balcony. He looks like he is about to leap over to join her, or fall between them. She smiles ironically. A year ago she would have muttered, “Dread Wolf take me,” at a kiss as devastating as this: but so he has, again. Lavellan nuzzles at his face and murmurs, “I cannot go into your room.” She draws an arbitrary boundary, when she has already crossed the threshold. Anders still lays sleeping in the bed behind her. She thinks to herself, I can gather information. He wants to stay with me. He wants me to stay. He has always said it is easy to tell me too much, whatever that means. I can bind him to that. This is not an excuse. She looks up at him. Solas rests his hand on her shoulder, eyes tender. “Meet me outside.” “I owe you that,” Solas says vaguely, and Lavellan raises an eyebrow. That, too, is an excuse, more patronizing than hers. She can use that. She thinks she can use that. She has her anger to whip the lines she will not cross into her feet. They carefully pull away from each other. One false move, and the other falls between the balconies. Lavellan finds her pipe, still smoldering slightly, and Solas collects his wine and candle. Before she closes the shutters, she turns and sees him watching her. He says, “I love you. Though we both know you deserve better. I love you.” “Stop it,” Lavellan says, and he laughs. She closes the shutters, smiling as tears dot at her eyes. She places the pipe on her dresser and goes to her lover. Lavellan leans over Anders and whispers, “Wake up--don’t say anything.” Anders frowns in his sleep, and she shakes his shoulder gently. “Quietly.” He turns, alarmed, so Lavellan puts her hand over his mouth. She whispers, “The Dread Wolf rented the room next to us.” Anders rubs his eyes and sits up, careful not to let the bed creak. “What the fuck?” She shushes him. “I’m serious,” she whispers. “And we’re going on a walk. Use the crystal to call Leliana if I’m not back by dawn.” Anders says, “You’re serious.” Sleep falling from his eyes, he focuses on her face and reaches for her. Healer’s hands: she takes his hand and presses a kiss into the palm. He traces the outline of her lips with his thumb. Guilt grasps her, and she moves away from his touch. His face falls. “You’re going on a night walk with the Dread Wolf. Your ex. The Dread Wolf--who not only put the Veil up in the first place, but wants to tear it down and kill us all.” She tenses. “Keep your voice down. He doesn’t think I’d wake you. Have that much faith in me.” Quietly she slides off of him and pulls off her dress. She shoots him a look over her shoulder, hoping to distract him, but he is clearly displeased. Quickly she pulls on underclothes, a tunic, leggings--but she can feel him fretting silently. “I won’t stop you,” Anders says finally. “But you do realize what this looks like to me.” He is completely still, playing along for her. Lavellan straps on her prosthetic and fits a jar of bees into the compartment. She brandishes it at him, and Anders smiles slightly. She walks over to him and kisses him gently. “I’ll be back before dawn,” she says firmly. “And if I’m not--he’d kill me, not kidnap me.” She taps her sylvanwood ring with her prosthetic clumsily. “He does not think I would wake you. While we’re gone, check the guest registry. I want to know what name he used. And then call Leliana.” Pointedly she hands him the sending crystal. Anders sighs. “I’ll be back,” she repeats. And I’ll keep him walking and talking so I won’t fuck him, too, she adds silently. “And we’ll regroup in the morning.”

[innuendostudios]

After four months of work, my video essay Bringing Back What’s Stolen: Fury Road and the Avenging Feminine is online. A nearly hour-long dive into the cinematic language of feminine violence in action and horror films. You can also watch this playlist of all 8 parts if you don’t want to click through manually. I will share a supercut of the whole thing as soon as I deal with a copyright block.

This was a crapload of work so, please, if you want more like it, consider backing me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

Mad Max Fury Road has three principal characters: Imperator Furiosa, Immortan Joe, Max Rockatansky; protagonist, antagonist, deuteragonist (it’s a word).

Each character is introduced from behind, as a body first and then, later, as a person.

We meet Max at a remove, practically a silhouette. Wrapped in cloth and buried in wild hair, it takes several moments before we glimpse human skin. Almost immediately, he’s disappearing into his V8 Interceptor, and it’s not until his pursuers roll his car that we get a shot of his face, covered in sand and a matted beard.

Max is a person who has abandoned all markers of his humanity to live alone in the desert. His obscured face makes it easier to relate to him as a feral animal than as a man, and that’s the life he’s chosen; living like an animal insulates him from danger and buries his guilt and trauma. Throughout the first chunk of the film, Max’s face is remains obscured, first by the beard, then a gag, then a muzzle. We get only one unobstructed shot of his face, and it’s framed by the bars of a cage. The protections he built around himself, the war boys have stripped him of, and replaced with chains; humanity is no longer something forsaken, it's something denied.

It’s not until 45 minutes into the movie, having escaped Joe and formed a tenuous alliance with Furiosa and the wives, that he starts to look to the audience like a recognizable human.

We meet Furiosa in the opposite fashion. Where Max was a wide shot of a silhouette that is all cloth and hair, Furiosa is an extreme close-up of brightly-lit human skin. She carries Joe’s brand, and she has her hair cut short, which implies everything we just saw Max go through, she has gone through as well. They’re both prisoners. [“I was taken… stolen.”]

Where Max is invisible inside his car, we follow Furiosa inside the war rig. Max is like a hermit crab receding into its shell only to have it pried off, where Furiosa has complete mastery of her vehicle (it even has her missing arm drawn on the driver’s side door, as though the war rig were an extension of her body). Clear windows, her face unobstructed, the greasepaint on her forehead making her eyes - the windows to the soul - pop, making her expression more readable.

Everything Max takes the first act to become, she is from her first scene. The time between her introduction and getting a good look at her face is just over two minutes.

Joe’s introduction is the sick inversion of the others’, closer and fleshier than Furiosa’s yet more alien than Max’s. Where Furiosa’s skin humanizes her, Joe’s tumorous body does the reverse. Where Max has his layers of protection stripped from him, Joe is kitted up with armor and finery. Where Max struggles to make his face visible and Furiosa’s expressions are accentuated, the distance between Joe’s introduction and seeing his face uncovered is the entire movie; we only see Joe unmasked when half his face has been torn off. And three minutes later the credits are rolling.

What makes these characters accessible has been distorted to make Joe a grotesque. (I don’t have room to get into the troubling ways Fury Road uses atypical bodies as a shorthand for inhumanity, so I’ve written a small, additional essay, link in the down there part, or at the end.)

So here we have it, from the opening shots: protagonist, antagonist, deuteragonist; human, inhuman, half-human.

The things I’m describing are filmic techniques for creating or denying audience empathy. Humans relate to other humans, and filmmakers employ dozens of tricks to portray inhumans as human and thereby relatable, and portray humans as inhuman to make the otherwise. By this rubric, empathy with Max is built, empathy with Joe is denied, and empathy with Furiosa is simply expected.

The female action star being the one for whom empathy is most freely given is by no means unprecedented, but it’s not the norm. In the tradition of Blow Shit Up movies, the “relatable action heroine” is often approximated, approached asymptotically, but rarely depicted. Some don’t seem to believe she exists. Yet, here she is.

Furiosa is our white whale.

If, in a rom-com, the Thing What Solves Your Problem is love, in an action movie, The Thing What Solves Your Problem is violence. Something is wrong with the world, and the plot is structured around amassing the strength, tactics, or allies necessary to smash your problem until it goes away. That’s how things get fixed. And the idea of punching the world back into shape is deeply tied up in our notions of manliness.

There are dozens, if not hundreds, of archetypal action protagonists, from the Everyman Against the World to the Hulking Brute to the Dapper G-man to the Stoic Killing Machine, and, while occasionally cast with women, they are all, by default, men. There’s maybe no other genre more deeply associated with masculinity.

The longstanding assumption is that women complicate violent movies the way we used to say they complicate sea voyages. The movies are manly, the audience is male, and a male audience will not identify with a female character as a matter of course. This assumption goes into the writing, the casting, the filming, the editing, and the marketing. Demographics do bear out that violent movie audiences are, primarily, men, but this assumption existed before we tracked demographics. So, then: if we’ve been making the movies for men, and marketing them to men, should we really be surprised if it’s mostly men who end up seeing them?

For a variety of reasons, action filmmakers can’t just make movies without women in them: a) there are still at least a few women in the audience, and their money spends just as well as a man’s, so best not to completely alienate them, b) they’d rather not get yelled at too much by feminists, c) sleeping with beautiful women is part of the power fantasy a lot of male action heroes are supposed to cater to, and d) absent any women, the fixation with the male physique might read as just a wee bit gay, and we can’t have that, apparently.

So if women in action movies are unavoidable, perhaps the audience’s sympathies, if not freely given, can be earned. For this purpose, action filmmakers have invented a handful of female archetypes.

Between these six women, we can chart the cinematic language of feminine violence as it is most commonly codified. I’ll stress that they are not the sum total of womanly presence in violent movies, but, if you’re a fan of violent film, you’ve probably been in a room with them dozens of times and never been formally introduced.

Each has something to teach us about how men are expected to relate to a woman in a violent context. Let us discuss each in her own turn, and, with each, how Fury Road’s avoidance, subversion, or rejection of these expectations are key to what the film is about.

Let’s get y’all acquainted.

The Innocent: Helplessness

There is a beat common in action movies called The Kick The Dog Moment. Kicking a dog is how screenwriters signal to the audience just how bad the bad guy is, because only a monster would harm something so precious, so loyal, so helpless as a dog.

An even more common beat for exposing a villain’s evil nature is the Strike The Woman Moment, or the Grope The Woman Moment, or the Shoot The Woman Moment.

This is the role of The Innocent: precious, loyal, helpless, and serving the same narrative function as a puppy. Her proximity to violence spurs the plot forward, and reveals things about violent men, but the story’s never really about her. It’s about the men. She’s there to get threatened by men, to get kidnapped by men, to get killed by men. Also, she’s there to get rescued by men, or, failing that, to be avenged by men. The Kick The Dog Moment isn’t about the dog, it’s about the villain. The dog is a device.

The Innocent is not wholly incapable of enacting violence herself. She will, on occasion, fight back against her captors, which serves to communicate to the audience that she’s feisty; but it rarely accomplishes anything. Occasionally, during the falling action, she is granted an act of symbolic violence, sometimes even landing the final blow on the villain, but this is only after the dramatic tension surrounding the villain has resolved.

The Innocent is an onlooker to violence, she is often the site of violence, and though she is sometimes allowed to perform violence in an honorary capacity, she’s not a full participant. She is a symbol of what is good and worth protecting, and what is good is innately peaceful. Violence is a burden that violence is used to spare her from. It is the solemn duty of men. She can only enter this domain as a victim.

She is, by far, the most common female action movie archetype. There’s even a variant I call The False Innocent - the woman who plays off people’s assumption that women are powerless in order to kick their asses. You know, what if that 90-pound, doe-eyed waif being threatened by the big strong men is secretly the toughest person in the room? (Joss Whedon is, shall we say, fond of this one.) This serves as a direct rebuke to the assumptions baked into The Innocent, but it says something about how pervasive the archetype is that you can build an entire second archetype around everyone assuming all women are Innocents.

In Fury Road, as soon as our protagonist and deuteragonist meet, it is made clear that Furiosa can hold her own in a fight with only one arm. This scene serves the same function as the Thor-Iron Man-Captain America fight in The Avengers: “Hey, these folks are pretty evenly-matched. Wouldn’t it be cool if they were on the same side?” And Furiosa’s not the only woman who can fight: Later, we meet fearsome warrior tribe The Vuvalini.

So where we normally see a divide between violent men and passive women, here we have a split between multi-gendered warriors, and people who don’t fight - in this case, the wives.

And not being a warrior doesn’t ipso facto make the wives useless, unlike some damsels who, growing up, made you or possibly your older sister yell “DO SOMETHING WOMAN” at the TV. People who can’t throw a punch can still throw you a weapon, they can pull your enemies off you, they can keep ammo away from your enemy’s gun. They can reload a rifle, they can stop a bullet from being fired. They can make you a new ally. Even when people try to turn them into helpless prisoners, as happens to so many women in so many movies, they don’t have to submit; they can surrender and then help you board the enemy’s caravan, or, even taken captive and held at gunpoint, they can still help you take down the Big Bad.

In isolation, any one of these could be just another “feisty damsel” or “false innocent” moment, but, in their totality, they start to imply that the reason the wives aren’t fighters like Furiosa is the same reason they don’t drive the war rig: They don’t know how, because they’ve been kept in a safe. There is nothing innate about the difference between a warrior and a non-warrior, and certainly nothing gendered; just training.

If the usual framing is active, violent men protecting or possessing passive, innocent women, no one in this movie is passive. No one. Even if you aren’t shooting the gun yourself, there are still ways to contribute. You don’t have to sit around waiting to be rescued, there’s work to do.

It’s important to recognize that the wives are never rescued by anyone; not Max, not even Furiosa. [“they begged her to go” clip.] Violence may still be the way things get done in an action movie, but it’s not synonymous with agency. They set the plot in motion. This whole thing is their plan. It’s not a rescue, it’s an escape.

The Vasquez: Masculinity

Meet The Vasquez, the masculine woman, named after Janette Goldstein’s character in Aliens because all the other words I could think of carried the wrong connotations. (Also, Goldstein? Really?) The Vasquez is rough, she’s tough, she’s hard-drinking, she’s foul-mouthed, she’s gun-savvy, she’s sexually aggressive, and, most importantly, she’s one of the guys. If the most common coding is that men are violent and women are passive, and the action screenwriter assumes a male audience won’t like their female character because they can’t stand to think violence could ever be feminine, the obvious solution? Make the lady man up. If she resembles a man, she can be fashioned into any number of existing male archetypes, from military grunt to double agent to assassin.

Her closest male counterpoint is The Hardbody, a staple of the 80’s action milieu. In a hardbody movie, we either meet a man who’s a pillar of masculine strength, or we watch an ostensibly regular guy spend the movie becoming one. Similarly, The Vasquez is sometimes introduced fully-formed, but, more often than not, we watch her emerge from the body of a traditionally feminine woman. And where a Hardbody’s training montage shows what is soft becoming hard, The Vasquez shows what is feminine becoming masculine. [G.I. Jane clip on not menstruating.]

In either gender, we can call this process “ruggedization,” and it’s not only physical. As a character acclimates to violence, there is often a change in presentation. Most especially with a woman, ruggedization may not be the gaining of muscle but the shedding of feminine signifiers. Note how Ripley, over the course of three movies, goes from having all the hair to a lot of the hair to none of the hair, thereby resembling all the men in the movie, as she becomes more of an action heroine. Note how, as Thelma goes from neurotic housewife to a woman who robs liquor stores and holds up policemen, we see her go from frilly white dresses to denim to dirty sleeveless tops. Note the scene where Louise sits down at a truck stop, takes off every piece of jewelry she owns, and trades them for a man’s cowboy hat.

Also, in correlation with becoming violent, there tends to be, call it a shift in patterns of speech: [“suck my dick” montage].

The Vasquez maintains the association between powerlessness and womanness codified by The Innocent because, as the woman sheds her weakness, she also sheds her womanness; the two are treated as the same thing. Violence stays masculine; women get violent when they become honorary men.

Fury Road‘s trick is to take its plurality of female characters and scatter them across the entire gender spectrum. In terms of presentation, you’ve got the highly feminine wives, the traditionally masculine garb of the Vuvalini, and Furiosa somewhere in between. The film subverts the spectrum further by softly rejecting the notion that a person occupies any single position along it. Toast is very feminine and also knows her way around guns; the Vuvalini are a leather-wearing, pants-sporting biker gang, and also are The Many Mothers, who care about feminine-coded things like cooperation, empathy, gardening. Masculinity and femininity are not an either/or. Many traits exist, in varying proportions, in all people.

Traditional femininity is valorized in our male heroes as well. Traits like healing, softness, deference to superior skill, self-sacrifice, these things are treated as inherently valuable irrespective of one’s gender, and absolutely mission critical to their success in battle. Basically every time a man does something that Human Embodiment of Toxic Masculinity Joe would disallow, it helps them win. This goes a long way towards elevating femininity, but also breaking up the male-female dichotomy, allowing anyone to possess any trait from anywhere along the spectrum and still be strong.

The fact that Joe does treat gender as an either/or, that he does not foster community nor empathy with his followers, that he only maintains loyalty by imposing a Norse-inspired death cult that leads his war boys into reckless behavior and crumbles instantly if it’s ever challenged, these things are liabilities.

Men and women are at their strongest not at their most masculine - at their most like Joe - but when they are free to be as masculine and as feminine as the situation requires of them. What’s wrong with Joe isn’t masculinity - masculine signifiers abound on both sides of the fight - it’s a malignant masculinity that rejects all but the most extreme of one end of the spectrum. This narrowness is what gets Joe killed.

The Dominatrix: Sexuality

The sensual murderess, ass-kicking in catsuits, high heels, and chokers. The ostentatious fusion of the two greatest spectacles: Sex & Death, Pleasure & Pain, Eros & Thanatos. If you want to leave behind the idea that the only way to be violent is to be manly and you worry your straight male audience will revolt, consider writing someone every straight male is already familiar with.

Consider The Dominatrix.

(Note that I am using the term “dominatrix” a little loosely here. In real life, there is a distinction between highly sexualized violence and actual BDSM iconography. How do I know? Mind your own business.)

The Dominatrix is a violent - often hyperviolent - character who is still, unmistakably, a woman. I mean, say what you want about Bayonetta, she’s not mannish. Most men are at least passingly familiar with what a dominatrix is, so it’s not a far leap to refashion a woman’s bedroom violence into action movie violence. But she comes with some baggage.

The femininity she displays is specifically the subset of femininity most appealing to men. She’s not a nurturer, not a healer, not soft, and rarely cooperative. Her womanliness begins and ends with sexuality. And sexiness creates its own context. There may be loose justification for why she’s dressed the way she is: you know, she can’t wear armor like a normal person because she needs to leap around - gymnastics being another familiar image of female physical excellence, and an excuse to whiz the camera around her body. But much of the time we don’t even get that much. The movie holds no pretense: She’s dressed that way because the audience likes it.

The thinking here seems to be that if straight men consider violence the domain of men, and, therefore, a violent woman an affront to their masculinity, they’ll willingly take a blow to their male ego provided their heterosexual ego is, to speak indelicately, getting stroked. For what does a dominatrix do? Strike, dominate, and degrade, yes, but for their partner’s own pleasure. It’s, at least in part, a performance; there’s a reason your dalliance with a domme is called “a scene.”

The dominatrix-as-action-heroine turns violence into a kind of elaborate pole dance, inoffensive to a man because it’s for him, a woman trafficking in male signifiers made acceptable because she does it sexylike.

Of all the characters we’re talking about, The Dominatrix demands the least empathy of the male audience. An action movie offers a power fantasy; James Bond is supposed to be a character men want to be. Men don’t want to be Barb Wire. Men are supposed to look at Barb Wire, not walk a mile in her pumps. The Dominatrix is most commonly a villain or an antihero. Perhaps it should come as no surprise: Bad Girls aren’t Good Guys.

Now, this is a bit of a subjective statement, but Fury Road doesn’t sexualize its women.

Let me paint you a picture: A man lives for some indeterminate length of time at the very bottom of a rigid social hierarchy wherein only the man at the top has access to beautiful women. Prior to that he lived for years alone in the desert. We don’t know how long it’s been since he’s even spoken to a woman. After a thrilling escape, he, alone, happens upon the five women deemed by that society the most beautiful and fertile, the “prized breeders,” clad in white, cutting off their chastity belts, and spraying each other with a hose.

This is how Max meets the wives. Most Hollywood directors would shoot this scene like a wet t-shirt contest.

Man Of Social Caste That Would Never See A Beautiful Woman Naked Stumbles Upon One Or More Bathing Out Of Doors has been shot hundreds of times. This is every hot springs episode of every anime ever drawn. Movie peeping is the essence of the filmic experience, because a man watching a woman bathe is doing the same thing you are doing as an audience member: looking at naked people who can’t see you. The way you traditionally shoot this scene is to lean in to the voyeurism. If there’s going to be bathing and then a fight, why not sexy bathing and sexy fighting?

In Fury Road, Max lusts only for one thing. Water.

During this scene, Furiosa is fully-clothed, and look at how she’s framed. Now look at the shots favored for the wives: long shots and tight close-ups. As in: their breasts and hips are either filmed at a distance or cropped out of frame.

I don’t want to overstate things. That framing is not enforced, merely favored. And there’s no denying these women are, by conventional standards, beautiful - I mean, for fuck’s sake, Zoe Kravitz is in this movie. I’m not, like, kinkshaming you if you do find this scene erotic. But it seems to me that effort is being expended to downplay the obvious potential for eroticism. A chastity belt coming off could easily signal sexual availability. [Men in Tights clip] But this one has teeth. To I’m thinking, “I would want that off me, too.” I feel I am being asked to walk in the wives’ shoes.

If what you need to feel OK with a woman holding a gun is some hint that she’s doing it to turn you on, Fury Road won’t give you that. If you want to see women as sexy bodies before you consider seeing them as humans, Fury Road won’t give you that, either. That’s how Joe sees them, and they left that perspective behind before frame one, and make one thing clear in their very first line of dialogue: [“We’re not going back.”]

The Mama Bear: Motherhood

A common action movie character is the man who’s love interest is kidnapped and/or murdered, and he is spurred into violence so that he can rescue her and/or punish everyone responsible. Swap the man for a mother and the love interest for her child and you’ve got The Mama Bear, the woman who will stop at nothing to protect her cub, a la Jodie Foster in Panic Room or Jodie Foster in Flightplan, or, occasionally, the woman who avenges another member of her nuclear family, a la Jodie Foster in The Brave One. (Jodie’s got a thing that works for her.)

Believe it or not, most men, growing up, had moms, and it’s a cultural narrative that children feel safe under their mother’s protection. So The Mama Bear is a violent woman who is, once again, both feminine and familiar. She’s the ideal of what we’d want our mom to be if something bad happened to us.

By nature or circumstance, The Mama Bear is a single mother, either recently divorced, recently widowed, or possessing a husband who is simply someplace else. (And if he shows up he tends to get his ass handed to him.) Occasionally she’s just single, or even a surrogate whose motherly instinct kicks in upon contact with an orphan. In all these cases, she springs into action without a lot of assistance from men. You can read this as an independent woman who does not require men to help her, or you can read it as a woman who acts, not because she’s suited to the task, but because there are no men to do it for her. Most are a little bit of both.

But this is a strong character who’s not only allowed to be feminine, she is strong because she’s a woman. She has entered the domain of men with her femininity intact. This is not to say that motherhood and womanhood should be so closely tied in our cultural consciousness, simply to acknowledge that, at this moment in time, they are. Mothers are thought of as women whom we not only accept but demand strength from.

But, if she’s our idea of what a mother should be, then our point of identification isn’t necessarily her, but, at least in part, the moppets. Because what warm-blooded mammal can look at the quivering lips of children in danger and not root for anyone trying to save them? The Mama Bear, often enough, gets a kind of collateral empathy, the spillover of our concern for her kids.

She is, also, in contrast with The Dominatrix, almost completely without fail, sexless, another consequence of having dead or absent husbands. She doesn’t have sex, kiss, or even flirt, because, naturally, our ideal mother would never make us think about her banging anyone. That, the assumption seems to go, is the price for our respect.

Between one obvious pregnancy, the wives’ escape to “the green place of many mothers,” and the words they left scrawled in their cell, motherhood is a central theme in Fury Road. The symbology of motherhood is all over fiction written by men. You know the “women and children first” trope in disaster movies? That’s not just chivalry. It’s also men preserving the mechanisms by which they pass on their genes. [Up In The Air: “Because you can’t have babies.”]

Immortan Joe is kind of the ad absurdum of this thinking, having literally turned motherhood into a commodity-producing industry. Outside of Furiosa’s relative privilege and a few unnamed proles, the only women in Joe’s hierarchy are babymakers and dairy cows. The wives’ escape is, at least in part, about providing a better life for them and their children, where bodies and babies are not property.

What’s absent in all this is any actual children. Save for some nameless warboy youths at the beginning and end - some of whom, for all we know, may have been born to the wives - children are not party to the action. There are no wee ones with their eyes welling up to get you caring about their moms by proxy. The wives and the Vuvalini may all carry the title of “mother,” but it’s abstracted. What’s at issue isn’t children but the idea of motherhood, or, more accurately, the right to motherhood, celebrated on its own terms and for its own sake, not as a service to men. And, by focusing more on pregnancy than child-rearing, motherhood is not quite so divorced from sex.

Motherhood and strength coexist in the characters, but the one does not derive from the other. Motherhood is not correlated with fighting ability. The wives’ rebellion is about the rights of their babies no more than it’s about their own rights to not be things.

The Final Girl: Specialness

[“Do you like scary movies?”]

OK, this one… is a lot.

A gaggle of young folks - usually horny teens - is terrorized by a monster - usually a man in a mask - who represents a kind of pure, unwavering evil and kills with a bladed weapon. One by one, every character is picked off or incapacitated until there’s only one left, a young woman who, in spite of her terror, finds the strength to fight back, and, often enough kill the killer. If you’re not familiar with the slasher movies of the 70’s and 80’s, you might not even know, at first, who of the initial posse is supposed to be the protagonist, but if you’re a fan, you’ll recognize her instantly: Responsible, resourceful, and pure, she is The Final Girl.

The slasher is an interesting case, because, breaking with the traditions we’ve established,  it’s an entire genre where a presumably male audience isn’t expected to accept a violent woman, by the end of the film they are expected to be screaming for her to pick up the chainsaw and kill the fuck out of the bad guy.

Because The Final Girl is special, damn it.

What sets her apart? Well, a lot of it is to do with what The Final Girl symbolizes and how it contrasts with the symbology of the killer. Of all the characters, she is the most suited to survive and combat the villain, which is why she outlives her friends. We can start with the most obvious difference: [“She’s a virgin”].

Virginity means a lot of things in the movies. Purity: If the killer represents all we consider evil about the world, the antidote to that is someone who is, metaphorically, “unsullied.” Youth: If sex is considered a rite of passage into adulthood, then a virgin is, in some ways, still a child, and we’ve already discussed how relating to a child is considered a smaller ask than relating to an adult woman. Desirability: As a society, we haven’t fully escaped the puritanical narrative of “bringing a virgin to the altar,” at least not in our movie symbolism, and codifying a woman as “untainted goods” invites the male audience to, well, crush on her. There also tends to be this subtext of sexual violation to the murders, which lends the whole thing a Chaucerian concern for preserving a young woman’s maidenhead.

There are other ways The Final Girl, even if not explicitly a virgin, is virginal. She doesn’t drink, or, if she does, she’s a lightweight. She doesn’t smoke pot, or, if she does, she’s inexperienced. She doesn’t flirt, or, if she does, she’s comparatively demure. She’s also usually a bit brighter than her friends: The one who first senses something is wrong, the one who makes a plan of action, the one who figures out the killer’s identity. She may not be “one of the guys,” but she’s “not like other girls.”

This emerges slowly over the course of the film. The more characters die, the more The Final Girl appears to individuate from the rest. It is the ways in which they are not like her that get the other girls killed. They’re too dim, too horny, too oblivious. The empathy you build for The Final Girl - in part by having every other potential point of empathy systematically removed - you are not asked to extend to the other girls. You empathize with a woman, not with women. If she is special, they are unspecial. Their deaths are scary, but titillating. You’re not expected to root for them the way you root for her. You’re here to watch them die.

Then there’s the killer himself. In the early going, the camera is more closely aligned with him than any of his victims, often showing the murders literally through his eyes. It’s only as The Final Girl grows more active in the story - and, eventually, becomes violent - that we gradually come to see the killer from the victim’s perspective.

Each slasher villain is a snapshot of what society thought an image of evil incarnate would look like at that time. The things they have in common are telling.

The killer is almost always a man - Friday the 13th Part I notwithstanding - but is commonly, by societal standards, an insufficient man: Physically deformed (The Hills Have Eyes), gender-nonconforming (Psycho), or just really, really hating sex (Jason X). This is often blamed on being too close with his mommy. Meanwhile, The Final Girl’s disinterest in the activities of other women makes her a little tomboyish, and it’s really common for her to have a boy’s name: Stevie, Marti, Terry, Stretch, Ripley, Taylor, Sidney. Couple this with her tendency to kill the villain with his own intimate, penetrating weapon - and I’m not going to go down the rabbit hole of phallic imagery in slasher movies because, frankly, I think most writers make too much of it, but it’s there - and you can read The Final Girl’s assault on the killer as becoming a better man than him.

We still haven’t escaped the fixation with violence and masculinity. This isn’t to say The Final Girl is another Vasquez - even if she is ruggedized, it’s not by forsaking femininity. Instead, the distinctions between masculinity and femininity are more permeable; the killer kills what is feminine, and then fails to kill what is, in some ways, less feminine than himself. And that failure leads to the reversal of who commits violence against whom.

Fury Road borrows a lot of imagery from horror films, most especially in imagining Joe as huge, misshapen, and masc’d. But Joe’s monstrosity is not a lack but an overabundance of masculinity, by no means the ideal male body but a body that idealizes maleness. If masculinity is a performance then he’s Kenneth fuckin’ Branagh. He hides his welts under fake abs, war medals, and - ahem - whiteness, and hangs a gear from a muscle car from highly symbolic places. [It’s drivin’ me nuts!] And he’s defeated not by appropriation of these signifiers but by rejection of everything they stand for.

But if the core of The Final Girl is a specialness that does not extend to other characters, can we talk about how not one person on Furiosa’s side of the battle is special? Not a one of them.

If we wanted to argue Furiosa is “not like other girls,” which other girls would we even be referring to? The femmes in white or the granny biker gang? The elderly matron, the full-bodied milk mothers, or the suffering proles? Furiosa has commonalities and differences with all of them. They all have commonalities and differences with each other. There is no “normal” from which to deviate. Even within a single type, there is variation: the wives alone have the leader, the nurturer, the weird one, the scared one, and the tough one (or: Gobo, Mokey, Wembley, Boober, and Red). No one is interchangeable.

At the same time, no one is special. The war rig is chock full of redundancies: Multiple people who can drive, multiple people who can shoot, multiple people who can fix what’s broken. Which is, again, necessary, because there’s too much to do not to have backup. [“I’m going to need you to drive the rig.”]

We don’t know a lot about Joe’s society, but we can infer it’s a caste system that stratifies everyone by specialness, here defined by their usefulness to Joe. At the bottom are possessions: wives, blood bags, and milk producers. Above them are the masses, and then the war boys, who believe they will be awaited in Valhalla if they perform their duties well. Next is Furiosa as a leader in Joe’s army, and then Joe’s immediate family, and, finally, Joe himself, singular and all-powerful. [“He grabs the sun.”]

Furiosa’s alliance counters this verticality with a lateral power structure - I mean, it’s literally the difference between a tower and a convoy - where specialness is not a prerequisite to rights, privilege, or empathy. A cooperative, where no one is fungible or disposable, and on one is special or elite. People form interdependencies with each other of their own free will, and may leave at any time if they wish. No one earns a place in society, or the empathy of the audience, by proving themselves unique. It is simply assumed that everyone is deserving of both.

Also, remember when I said this scene mostly kept the camera away from the wives’ breasts and hips? Here’s one of the only exceptions: [not a virgin clip]

The Rape Revenger: Suffering

I’m going to spare you the explicit footage in this section.

The rape revenge film is the subtext of the slasher movie made literal, the kick-the-dog moment if it took up an entire reel, what would happen if The Mama Bear fought as passionately for herself as for her kids. A number of men target a particularly vulnerable woman - usually isolated, sometimes even deaf or mute - and rape her. And then, one by one, they meet their fate at the hands of The Rape Revenger.

Most commonly, The Rape Revenger and the victim are the same person, though, sometimes, she is avenging a loved one, or even a member of her immediate community. (Yes, among other things, Alien is a movie about rape. The rape is metaphorical.) Her often sadistic killing spree is female-against-male in response to the most quintessentially male-against-female act of violence, and not only is the male viewer supposed to find this violence acceptable, he is supposed to find it righteous. He is supposed to clamor for the deaths of the transgressors. In these films, there is no retribution too cruel for a rapist.

The genre was most popular around the same time as the slasher, and carries much of the same coding: There’s the same lurid fascination with female bodies as objects of beauty and sites of extreme pain, the same earning of sympathy over the course of an entire movie rather than it being assumed, and the same implication that men are the source of a violence that women can become imbued with by being the victims of it.

The biggest difference is just how much the woman suffers in these movies. She suffers a lot.

There’s no collective of dipshit teens to spread the violence across; everything the villains do, they do to one woman. The genre banks hard on the idea that one can’t help caring for a person as one watches her go through hell. Often, what makes the villains monstrous isn’t their cruelty but that they lack this compassion, that they hardly even notice the pain they’re causing. To them, sexual violence is rarely even about the woman, but jockeying for status with one another. It’s performative, men proving they’re alphas. And the movies treat this apathy towards female suffering as among the most heinous acts a man can commit.

If your heart does not go out to a woman in pain, you are implicated in her suffering.

Not that the male-fronted rape revenge film doesn’t exist, but this is another of the rare violent genres where the protagonist is a woman by default. It is deeply rooted in the (at least, presumed) experience of being a woman. And, for all the genre’s trashiness and exploitation - and they are very trashy, and very exploitative, and usually written by men - the most ambitious of them point fingers not just at the male villains but at masculinity itself.

So if a rape revenge film is seen as a workable way to get a male audience member to not only align with a violent woman but against the worst aspects of maleness itself, the question is: Does the woman have to be nude, filthy, beaten, and degraded for him to get there?

Fury Road assumes otherwise. Female suffering is conspicuously absent from the movie.

Make no mistake, the wives have all been raped by Joe. That’s why he kept them. At least two are pregnant with his children. But there are no scenes of them inside the cell, no flashbacks, no tearful descriptions of what was done to them. Even over the course of a very violent movie, it is surprisingly merciful when it comes to violence inflicted on women: When Angharad dies, the camera doesn’t show it [“she went under the wheels”]; when Organic performs an emergency C-section on her body, the camera tilts away; a scene where Joe leaves her and Miss Giddy in the swamp to be eaten by crows was wisely cut from the film. Even the worst beatings Furiosa suffers are not dwelt upon.

It is crucial that the only person we see suffer Joe’s indignities is Max.

Male-on-male violence carries neither the social baggage of what real-life domestic violence usually looks like nor the grindhouse edginess of watching women get hurt. It’s allowed to just be violence. We see Max stripped of his autonomy, his car and his blood put into service in somebody else’s war. We see him captured, sheared, and branded, and then we’re shown Furiosa, with all evidence of the same, and it’s clear whatever empathy we’ve built for him in the safe space of male-on-male violence, we owe to her. We’re never asked to pity the wives, and we’re never given a cheap thrill at the sight of their suffering. We’re asked to respect them, and to take them at their word. We’ve seen their cell, their pregnant bellies, the scars on Angharad’s face. We don’t need to see them suffer to know it happened.

Cruelty is the hack writer’s shorthand for evil. That’s what all those Kick the Dog moments are for. But a man can be evil without being cruel. [Cheedo scene, “he was kind.”] Joe withholds plentiful resources to keep his subjects in line. He keeps young men as battle fodder for his wars. He keeps slaves for blood and breeding. Would it matter if, in person, he was sweet, gentle, soft? The system he’s built to benefit himself is inherently cruel. The wives don’t write “you treated us like shit” on the walls when they escape, they write “we are not things.” We don’t need to see, or even know, how Joe treated them to know he’s a tyrant.

The Avenging Feminine

Before the comments fill up with taxonomical debates over whether this or that character truly fits the definition of a Mama Bear, the way folks still argue over what is or isn’t a MacGuffin, let me disclaim: The study of tropes is the study of patterns. The Mama Bear is not a character, she’s what a host of different characters all have in common with each other. We note a trend, and we give the trend a name so it can be discussed. Not every character will have all the traits we associate with the pattern; arguably most won’t. But the reason we give the pattern a name is because, if there’s a trend, it must be serving a purpose. The assumption is that men won’t like the image of a woman with a gun. The purpose of the trope is to say, “It’s OK, this time, because she’s a mom.” And it’s a lot less relevant that Charlie Baltimore doesn’t perfectly fit the definition of a Mama Bear because she’s also kind of a Vasquez than that her motherhood serves that same purpose.

The assumption is men will accept that any male character, no matter how soft, if stripped to his essence, will become violent, but, with women, they need to be convinced. These are six different ways of contending with that assumption. Though, you will, I hope, have noticed, that almost every woman I’ve discussed here has been white. This is because, if filmmakers assume a male audience needs to be convinced that a woman will become violent, a countervailing assumption is that a white audience doesn’t need to be convinced that a person of color will. POC have their own set of tropes to contend with, tropes that have far less influence on the action movie as a whole, because violent Black women are even rarer than violent white ones. Because the codification of movie violence is deeply informed by the presumed whims of straight white men.

It’s an open question whether many straight white men actually need these reassurances to enjoy a violent film, though it’s clear a lot have come to expect them.

Action movie violence isn’t just violence, it’s power, and power in the hands of the disadvantaged is very threatening to those with privilege. Fury Road’s very interested in the flow of power. In it, women may possess violence, but lacking it does not make them helpless. It does not insist that masculinity is the only way to wield power and vilifies those who do. It refuses to objectify its female characters but doesn’t strip them of all sexuality in the process. It valorizes motherhood without pretending what makes a woman powerful is her ability to provide men with babies. It offers many models of femininity without treating any one as more normal or valid than the others. And it engages the way women suffer under patriarchy without using that suffering as cheap pathos or easy thrills.

In short, the assumption baked into all the tropes we’ve discussed, that violence - power - is the domain of men that women can only enter in exceptional cases is flatly ignored. Feminine presence in this masculine space is not treated as a transgression, men who would consider it one are personified in the villain, and no attempt is made to soothe the male ego at the sight of women holding guns and crossbows.

This alone would make a movie remarkable. But I don’t think we can stake a movie’s greatness on what it doesn’t do, so, if you’ll permit me, I’ll get to the goddamn point.

No matter how many women are in it, the core of an action movie is about solving your problems with violence. That an appropriate show of force will put things right again. Fury Road is no different in this respect. And, in our society, this is understood to be the male power fantasy, one that has been enforced by thousands of repetitions. So what, then, does it mean to portray a woman living out that fantasy? Does her presence decouple the association between violence and manliness, or is living out a male power fantasy a kind of drag? Is performing that fantasy performing masculinity? Is every action heroine, in a functional sense, a Vasquez? Is the action film too thoroughly encoded male to be reclaimed?

Can movie violence ever truly be feminine?

I don’t think I, or any single movie, can answer that question. However, if you said, “Let’s just assume the answer is ‘yes’ and imagine what that movie would look like,” you might imagine Fury Road. And I’m going to explain why without using the phrase “Deleuzian corporeality.” Let’s talk about the two bags.

When Max lets Furiosa and the wives into the war rig, he does not yet trust them, so, for safety, he collects all the weapons in the cab and puts them in a bag that he keeps with him. A satchel full of Chekhov’s guns, and you will see every one of them fired. Later, after Angharad’s death, the wives take stock of its contents. [“anti-seed” clip]

When the wives stay the night with the Vuvalini, a woman called The Keeper of the Seeds has this exchange with The Dag: [bag of seeds clip]. She shows this to The Dag after a conversation about murder: [“thought you girls were above all that”]. And here’s what the bag means to her: [“there was no need to snap anybody then”]. This bag symbolizes an idealized vision of the past, when the savagery of the post-apocalypse wasn’t necessary. When peace was, at least, possible. This is the bag that is pointedly taken with them when they go to overthrow Joe’s society, being the only place around that could actually sustain plant life and abundance.

So there you have it, a bag of seed and a bag of anti-seed, one full of weapons from the Citadel and one full of sprouts from the Green Place of Many Mothers, one representing the toxic masculine warmongering directly implicated in the fall of civilization, and one representing a potential rebirth of society spearheaded by a pack of moms and highly symbolic pregnancies. Fury Road ain’t good because it’s subtle.

So, yeah, Joe fights to maintain the savagery of the post-apocalypse, because it’s where he’s amassed his power, and the Vuvalini fight to bring and end to it. That’s the difference between toxic masculinity and egalitarian feminism, right? Women represent peace, so we should put them in charge, and a little blood must be shed along the way. That is a reading fully supported by the text. And you might well respond, “Hey, most every action movie insists that The Good Guys’ violence is justified and will lead to peace and only The Bad Guys’ violence leads to continuing violence. There’s nothing particularly subversive about that.” And you’d be right.

But let me give a different reading.

Joe’s power derives from controlling the water supply and arable land and, thereby, agriculture. His power dissolves if someone else can provide his people with resources. So a bag of seeds can represent a feminine rebirth, or it can represent liberation at the hands of women from the existing power structure. Not an end to violence, but an end to unjust violence. Not an end to scarcity, but an end to false scarcity. And end to subjugation. And end to autocracy. Violence as a tilling of the soil, destructive of what was but generative for what will be.

It’s not about “violence good” vs. “violence bad,” but “what is your violence in service of?” I don’t think anyone’s under the impression that violence will not exist in their new world, because, in Fury Road, violence is often justified. As in the real world, people rarely earn their freedom without getting a little bit rowdy.

It’s about who gets to wield violence and to what end. Is your violence about consolidating power or distributing it? Is it possessive or protective? Does it enforce a vertical power structure or a lateral one? This is why I feel saying women represent peace is too simplistic. This is where I feel the movie crosses from ignoring the “violence = masculinity, peace = femininity” coding at the root of so many female characters to countering it:

Furiosa was born to a clan of warrior women, kidnapped, enslaved, and put into service of a warlord. And the wives she fights to liberate have been kept in a cell to keep them from revolting against their captor. Violence - power - is not a thing Joe possess that women learn, or absorb through contact. It’s something he’s expended considerable effort to keep them from. Something he controls their access to the same way he controls the water.

Violence is something he stole from them.

In Fury Road, violence is egalitarian, and any imbalance between who is its owner it and who is subject to it is an unnatural state imposed from without. Joe, patriarchy itself, forces women into subservient roles to dissuade them from reclaiming what is theirs by rights. Violence is human, the vicarious thrill of watching violence is human, and empathy with those who enact violence in service of a righteous cause is human. The idea that any of these things are male is a product of men - warlords, movie producers, audiences - overly-invested in a narrative, because the narrative benefits them.

I would like to dub Furiosa The Avenging Feminine, a new trope: The woman who takes back what’s hers. The woman who fights because it’s her right to fight and against men who tell her it’s not. The woman who makes no affordances to men in the audience and implicates them in her struggle if they don’t like it. The woman who fights to bring the same freedom to other women. I would like to dub this a new archetype, because I think it’s one the action film sorely needs, and I selfishly want another Fury Road. That’s what I would like to do, but wishing doesn’t make it so.

I can, if I try, point to a few characters who have some of the necessary qualities, but it’s not enough to make a pattern. Tropes aren’t tropes just because I say they are. The Avenging Feminine remains, not unprecedented, but all too rare.

Fury Road cannot, on its own, reclaim the action movie… but all it takes to make a trend is volume. If people keep asking, “What if the answer to this question is ‘yes?’” and keep imagining what that movie would look like, maybe folks can get their heads around the idea that violence is not masculine by nature, only by custom.

And, with enough time, enough guns, enough cars, enough explosions, customs can change.

[whereiputtheotherstuff]

(Gif not mine but writing is)

The New Dragon

After becoming friends during your time at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, you now traveled with Newt Scamander the magizoologist. You both shared an interest in magical creatures, caring for them in particular. It also meant that you got to travel the world in search of the creatures. You were both so passionate about this that Newt decided to plan on writing a book on how to protect and look after those fantastic beasts. 

You were tidying up the shed in the suitcase. It was not that messy but various herbs needed to be reorganised to make them more accessible for the both of you. After dusting off your dress, you excitedly walk out into the enclosures. You could not wait to see what Newt was making. 

Walking towards you was the familiar silhouette of Newt. He was wearing a mustard coloured waistcoat, white shirt and dark trousers. His green eyes were partially covered by his reddish brown hair. “Is it finished?” you ask excitedly as you bounce up and down.  “It’s ready.” he replies laughing at your excitement. “W-would you like to have a look?"  You smiled as you nod your head. "Ok” he chuckled “but close your eyes. I want it to be a surprise.” You knew that he had been working on it for a while, so he had every right to build up the suspense. As you closed your eyes he gently held onto your hand as he guided you to your destination. 

“You can open them now.” he said whilst releasing your hand from his. As you opened your eyes you almost fell backwards in awe at what was in front of you. Luckily Newt held his hands on your shoulder and back to steady you. “It’s perfect.” you said as you gazed at the beauty in front of you. The space looked like a vast grassy but rocky field with a pool of water in the distance. Hidden was a cave lined with various rocks. You both stood in the centre of the brand new enclosure. It resembled the landscape of the higher mountain regions in Wales. 

You looked at Newt who you didn’t realise was staring at you to see your reaction. “Does this mean we can go and and get her?” you ask.  “Yes, it is time.” he replied smiling. You both practically ran to the shed and then up the ladder and out of the suitcase. Newt had heard of a female Common Welsh Green dragon that resided in the mountain regions of Wales. Townsfolk had been complaining that something had been feeding on their herds of sheep. Lately it had been eating so much that soon Muggles would notice that something unexpected was the culprit. 

Steadily you both walked on the rocky terrain, which proved challenging in your boots. Newt held the suitcase in one hand and kept a firm grip on your hand with the other. He was scared of you falling over. Finally the ground leveled out as you looked at the field in front of you. Newt had received a tip off that the dragon was already out, gazing hungrily at the herd of sheep again. Everything was quiet until a roar boomed in the distance, somewhere behind the field. 

Newt could feel your hand trembling in his and he looked at you with a worried expression. You were nervous because this would be your first ever encounter with a dragon. Remembering your lessons at Hogwarts about how dangerous dragons can be, made you shake a bit more. "It’s alright. Just follow my lead.“ he said reassuringly. 

You copied Newt as he began to walk with silent, lengthy strides. As you both walked further, a large silhouette began to become visible. "Dragons can be a little unpredictable but as long as you appear confident then they won’t see you as an easy target.” he whispered.  Both of you stood up as straight as you possibly could, to make you look bigger than what you really were.  “But how is it going to get into the case?” you asked with a concerned look on your face.  Newt chuckled. “Offer it something that it loves.”

You opened the suitcase and laid it on the ground. Slowly Newt pulled his wand out of its holder. “Wingardium leviosa” he said in a quiet voice. A toy of a sheep moved out of the case and around your feet. Newt was controlling the spell in such a way that the movement of the sheep decoy looked realistic. 

As soon as she caught sight of it, the dragon’s eyes were fixed on the toy. The large creature began to stalk it. You remember reading about these dragons and how competitive they can be. When they spot that another creature potentially wants the food that the dragon has its eye on, it then becomes an obsession for the dragon to get the food, no matter what it is.  “We should begin to move forward now that she’s seen it?” you whispered. Newt nodded. You both began to dart forward a step towards the toy sheep. The dragon caught a glimpse of you both. The game was now on.  The dragon lunged forward towards the toy and followed it. You noticed that there was something a bit odd with the way she moved. With a wave of Newt’s wand, the sheep decoy jumped into the case. The dragon froze in front of it. It knew that it was too big to fit in it.  Newt darted towards the case. Not to be beaten, the dragon jumped forward. She stumbled into the case with a lot less grace than you thought it would have. 

Back inside the suitcase you rush over to the enclosure Newt built, to see your newest arrival. You cautiously approached the area. Even though this breed of dragon were relatively subdued, it is important to give new creatures their space so they can grow accustomed to their environment. 

Newt was holding two buckets of meat and handed one to you. Both of you emptied the meat into the cave, making sure that the dragon was watching you. It was important to show a new beast that you are there to help provide and care for them. You looked at the dragon, amazed by her gorgeous green scales and ferocious presence. Newt stared at you with a smile on his face. He loved watching you as you studied the creature with fascination and pure joy. Newt was glad that you shared the same passion for magical creatures as he did.  You caught a glimpse of Newt staring you, causing a light blush to fill your cheeks. He quietly chuckled at your reaction. "It’s amazing what you’ve done Newt. Building this and housing these amazing beasts.“ you say whilst looking at the puzzled expression on his face. "It really is.” your words now caused him to blush.  “I’ll just return these buckets to shed.” he said smiling proudly whilst he took the bucket from your hand. 

The dragon began to walk around to get used to its new home. There was still something not quite right about the way it moved. It was as if it was limping slightly as it walked. Your eyes studied the body of the dragon until they focused on a drop of blood running down its side. The contrasting red line on its green scales stood out just behind the wing. 

“Newt, I think that the dragon is hurt.” you called whilst keeping your eye on the dragon. You moved further towards the back of her to try and get a better look at the wound. You could see that the dragon was following your movements with her eyes. For a moment you stared at each other and you couldn’t quite explain it but it was as if you both knew what the other was thinking. Slowly the dragon lifted her wing, revealing a large branch that was impaled under her scales. The size of it must be causing her great pain and definitely explained why she had trouble moving. 

You slowly walk towards the dragon, making sure to look at her face the entire time incase she did not want you to. The scales looked even more beautiful up close, like shards of shiny green shell. Blood continued to trickle from the base of the branch but there were patches of darker red. It must have been there for days if not weeks. Looking at her face again, it looked as if the the dragon knew what you were planning to do and was bracing itself. Part of you knew that you should wait for Newt to get back so he could help but you had come this far, the dragon was ready and looked like it wanted it taken out as soon as possible. “Shh” you soothed, though it was more to calm your own nerves.

Slowly you grabbed the base of the branch. You could not believe that you were doing this and that you were touching a real dragon. Looking at where it was, it was going to be easy. You were so focused on the task that you did not notice the sound of footsteps in the distance. Mustering up all of your strength and courage, you pulled the branch out in one swift movement. During this action the dragon squirmed in the brief pain. That’s when suddenly. 

It all happened so quickly, that you did not have time to reach for the wand in your pocket. The dragon unconsciously raised its claw and scratched your arm. Great pain searing through it. You let out a scream as you stepped back several paces out of the enclosure. You had not seen your injury but you knew that you should not appear weak or hurt in front of a dragon. 

“(Y/N)!” you heard Newt yell as he ran towards you. Looking down you could see your blood soaked sleeve as your arm grew warm and wet. The cut must have been deep as you were losing quite a lot of blood. Feeling dizzy, your legs give out and you sit in the floor. The pain in your arm and the shock made you shake. Newt rushed to your side and knelt down beside you. “Merlin’s beard.” he exclaimed as he looked at you, worry etched on his face. 

“I’m so sorry Newt. The dragon had a branch lodged in her side and it was hurting her. I managed to get it out. This was only an accident.” you whispered, breathing heavily. He glanced up and saw the bloody branch on the ground.  “I know.” he soothed as he gently stroked your face. Trying to keep his composure, he lifted up the soggy sleeve of your dress. He looked at your blood covered arm and you start to do the same. “(Y/N), keep your eyes on me.” he said whilst trying to smile reassuringly. Damn your arm must be worse that you thought. Obeying his wishes you focus on his face, slowly getting lost in his green eyes. He was deep in thought whilst looking at your arm, though a smile flashed across his face as he caught a glance of you staring at him. 

“There’s too much.” Newt mumbled as he lifted his waistcoat slightly. He ripped a couple of strips of fabric off of his white shirt. Using one strip he wrapped it tightly around the top of your arm to lessen the blood flow. He picked up the other piece and hesitated. “This is going to hurt a bit.” he said softly. You could see in his face that he did not want to hurt you in anyway. Slowly you lifted your other arm and took his free hand in yours. He stroked your hand using his thumb.  Using the fabric he started to clean up the wound as gently as he could. You squirmed as your arm stung, a few tears rolling down your cheeks. Newt looked away in guilt.  Feeling tired you begin to close your eyes involuntarily. Newt squeezed your hand to force your eyes open again. You looked at Newt’s face again. 

“Sorry I hurt you. I had to do it so I could see what I’m doing.” he said, his voice cracking slightly, with red tear filled eyes. You could see how uncomfortable he was with hurting you. “You are silly.” you giggled. He smiled in response whilst taking his wand out of its holder. Waving it above your arm he said a healing spell. You looked at your arm, all that remained of the cut now was a small scar. 

Looking back up, Newt’s eyes meet yours.  “Thank you” you said smiling.  “For what?” he said with a confused expression.  “For being amazing.” you grin.  Newt’s cheeks flushed red as he chuckled.