Although in Spellbound, Dr. Constance Peterson's role as a psychiatrist was outside of Haskell's theory of conventional roles as well-to-do mothers and girls next door, the three male gazes are clearly seen. The cameraman films her in close-ups which emphasizes her beauty and, causes her to have little movement as possible, making her more like an object. Throughout the film, Peterson is surrounded my males, in the asylum she is the only female psychiatrist, center of attention of all the other males, and criticized by the males in a scene when Peterson comes to the dining hall late with grass and mustard on her shirt. her. The male doctors have a keen gaze on her, eyeing her up and down, commenting on her appearance, and knowing about her whereabouts. Even though she is portrayed as a psychiatrist, she is still the attractive female, which demeans her importance as a doctor. And of course, the gaze of the spectator presumed to be male, would also look down upon her

Bates, Laura Raidonis. "Sweet Sorrow": The Universal Theme of Separation in Folklore and Children's Literature. The Lion and the Unicorn 31.1 (2007) 48-64. The Johns Hopkins University Press. 2007

In this article, Laura Bates looks at a common storyline for females in fairytales: separation, trials/tests, and reunion. In it she examines six stories: “Hansel & Gretel”, “The Juniper Tree”, “The Deserted Children”, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, “The Wizard of Oz”, and “Peter Pan”. She argues against the idea that women are portrayed weakly in fairy tales only to be saved by a prince Charming. Alternatively, in these stories the women not only successfully take care of themselves, but often take care of others as well. The men become dependent on the women. In the tales, the first stage of the story is separation. Sometimes the separation is caused by the parents as in Hansel and Gretel, but sometimes the separation is due to the child’s action as in The Wizard of Oz or Peter Pan. The next stage of the story is a quest or a trial. Girls often initially respond with fear or tears, as would be expected from society for a young girl. However, they always have to summon some sort of inner strength to overcome obstacles. Dorothy’s quest is to follow the Yellow Brick Road to eventually return home. Her quest is both psychological and physical. She discovers things about herself she didn’t realize such as her courage and empathy. The last stage of the story is the homecoming and reunion. Bates states that homecoming is a natural desire that stems from separation, but it is not a guaranteed outcome. In Dorothy’s case, she vanquished the wicked witch and discovered (with the help of Toto) the deception of the Wizard. However, we learn that Dorothy didn’t really need to do those things and perhaps all she needed was the ability to believe in herself.

This common theme in stories is important because it must help lend to their popularity. The common stages of separation, quest, and reunion are seen time and time again and thus must contain some quality that is attractive to the mass audience. In this sense, this aspect of the Wizard of Oz can also help lend to its popularity. The question, however, remains as to why such storylines are favored. It is perhaps due to the general idea of female empowerment that people enjoy. Alternatively, Bates suggests that gender roles allow female lead characters to incorporate magical beings into the story because females embrace their natural surroundings, while males separate themselves from it. Humans may have an innate desire and fascination with magic and thus these types of stories allow them to be incorporated. Whatever the reason, Dorothy surely goes through the three stages identified by Bates, and shows that a girl can be just as heroic as anyone else.

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In this article, Tania Modelski offers a feminist interpretation of Blackmail. She explores the issues raised by attempted rape and the silencing of women. She notes that the painting of the jester is used to put women back in their place. The jester represents the laughing male to both Alice and her fiancé Frank. The jester shames Alice and stops her laughter at the end of the film. As for Frank, the jester reminds him that he has been had by Alice when he finds her glove in the studio. Essentially, it reminds Alice that she is the joke and not the one in control and laughs at Frank that for Alice's deception towards him.

While Modelski argues that Alice is objectified and not given a voice, I would argue that the jester in the film doesn't win. The portrait of the jester that condemns and shames Alice is stabbed and carted off by the police at the end of the film. The jester is punished for its crime of passing judgment. While the males in the movie attempt to speak for Alice and keep her from speaking, they are not entirely successful. Alice takes control of her anxieties towards her sexuality and usurps the male role by killing Crewe and stabbing the portrait.

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In response to a letter from a male critic, Tania Modelski argues that male critics specifically give Alice the trial that she does not receive in Blackmail. She asserts that the law is patriarchal and that since it is considered impartial the male view of justice becomes the accepted one. It is then interesting that Hitchcock did leave out the trial and judgment of Alice that Modelski claims is prevalent in the male perspective of the film. Perhaps it is an acknowledgment by Hitchcock that the law is not impartial and would have been unfair to Alice. By removing the judgment of Alice in the film, Hitchcock might be trying to remove a primarily male perspective.

Harbord, Janet.  “Between Identification and Desire: Rereading ‘Rebecca.’”  Feminist Review, No. 53, Speaking Out: Researching and Representing Women (Summer, 1996), pp. 95-107.

Janet Harbord begins her discussion by introducing the tangents between psychoanalysis and the romance novel – though they seem to be totally separate disciplines, both engage a dialogue between past and present, defining time as an inevitable sign of progress.  The appeal of repetition arises due to the comfort inherent in familiar patterns, bringing to the forefront the fundamental human tendency towards stability, sought after both in psychoanalysis and romance narratives.  Furthermore, that which is forbidden also appeals to us equally as much, though often more fleetingly so, and it is upon this basis that Harbord suggests the implications of homosexual desire in Rebecca.

Interestingly, it is the very normative, repressive structure so often found in romance narratives that encourages the breaking of such boundaries through textual exploration of possibilities apart from the conventional.  Thus, quite opposite from the championing of the traditional heterosexual household, romance narratives such as Rebecca in fact often subtly subvert accepted cultural values by implying the option of other alternatives – in this case, lesbian desire.  Such storylines appeal primarily to women for the simple reason of reflexivity, for as women question their own societal and sexual roles, literature and film provide a useful avenue for self-reflection and relief in resolving the conundrum of individual identity.

Distinctive visual symbolism in Rebecca enhances the exploration of issues such as class, gender, ethnicity, and sexuality.  Rebecca herself, an eerily absent center of desire throughout the film, serves as the ghostly epitome of the white, upper class married woman, yet simultaneously represents raw sexuality and hence evokes lesbian desire.  The symbolic emphasis on her clothing, for example, introduces the fundamental dichotomy between the exterior façade as opposed to the true nature of an individual.  Ultimately, Rebecca’s appeal is her transgression of traditionally delineated boundaries, as she crosses lines of class, gender, and, most centrally, female sexuality.

Wheatley, Kim.  “Gender Politics and the Gothic in Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Rebecca.’”  Gothic Studies, Vol. 4, No. 2 (Nov., 2002), pp. 133-145.

Rebecca represents a new strain of Gothic romance in which the tortured heroine falls in love with a man who plays a dual role in regard to the heroine: he not only offers her relief from danger, but is also a major source of unresolved tension and confusion for her.  Not only does Mr. deWinter play a pivotal role, then, but Manderley itself is undeniably a significant “character.”  Furthermore, Rebecca is made all the more powerful by her very absence.  Through haunting music, symbolism attached to her material possessions, and details such as the camera angle in the boathouse confession scene, Rebecca’s ghostly presence is solidified. 

Even greater emphasis on Rebecca’s omnipresence emerges through the apparent continued loyalty of Jasper the dog, and also through Mrs. Danvers’ unwavering devotion to Rebecca and subsequent disdain for the young wife.  Mrs. Danvers even goes so far as to articulate her musings as to whether the dead continue to observe and dwell among the living.  This voyeuristic pervasion of the plot lends Rebecca an ominous, haunting power and lingering influence. 

However, Wheatley presents the alternative ‘containment thesis’ that Rebecca’s relative power and influence is held at bay and even diminishes over the course of the film.  Her containment is achieved through Maxim’s patriarchal authority, most poignantly evident in his young wife’s reaction during the confession scene, during which she is completely vulnerable and it is revealed that all she desires is his love, relinquishing all hints of independence.  This disproportionate male power held by Maxim is echoed in two other prominent male characters, Frank Crawley and Jack Favell, who provide counterpoints to Maxim’s harsh personality yet exercise similar control over the young heroine.  Even further establishing the trend of patriarchy, only men are present during one of the final scenes of the film, in Dr. Baker’s office, defining negotiations and relationships between men of the utmost importance.  Thus, despite Rebecca’s haunting influence over the course of the film, Wheatley suggests that it is ultimately patriarchy which triumphs in the end.

Berenstein, Rhona J.  “Adaptation, Censorship, and Audiences of Questionable Type: Lesbian Sightings in ‘Rebecca’ (1940) and ‘The Uninvited’ (1944).”  Cinema Journal, Vol. 37, No. 3 (Spring, 1998), pp. 16-37.

In her article, Bernstein addresses the taboo subject of lesbian desire as it is subtly depicted in Rebecca.  Even up until the modern day, she explains, societal recognition of lesbians is consistently and unfairly suppressed.  Rebecca deWinter serves as an undeniable object of lesbian desire, at a time when female homosexuality was even less societally accepted and understood than it is today.  Even though she is dead and unseen, Rebecca is arguably the most powerful presence of the film, not to mention its namesake. 

The young heroine feels the wrath of Rebecca most acutely, and is constantly reminded of her omnipresence through her physical possessions and the undying loyalty, and possibly sexual desire, of Mrs. Danvers toward Rebecca.  Introducing this subversive suggestion of lesbian desire was risky during the time when Rebecca was made, and it violated specific mandates of the production code.  In the early stages of the film’s production, Joseph Breen, the head of the Production Code Administration (PCA) at the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA) wrote a series of letters to David O. Seiznick indicating his objections to Rebecca.  The most urgent objection, and thus the aspect of the film which was most readily changed, was that Maxim is left unpunished by the law despite murdering his wife – accordingly, in the film version, the incident is depicted as accidental.  Next, Breen objects to the implication of Rebecca as a sexual pervert, and finally to the illicit relationship between Jack Favell and Rebecca, which is suggested to result in an illegitimate child.  The second objection subtly implies but fails to explicitly mention the film’s treatment of lesbian desire, though Breen’s intentions are clear. 

Thus, not only is the depiction of lesbian desire within the film understated, but even the censorship evaluation dances around the issue.  The depiction of lesbian leanings in a mysterious, frightening film like Rebecca is an interesting statement, as the ghostly quality of Rebecca pervading the narrative is echoed by the lesbian’s unseen yet acutely recognized presence within society.

Tay, Sharon Lin.  “Constructing a Feminist Cinematic Ideology: The Gothic Woman’s Film Beyond Psychoanalysis.”  Women, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Winter, 2003), pp. 263-280.

Distinctive historical and social factors provided for the emergence of the Gothic woman’s film in Hollywood during the 1940’s.  The Second World War elicited an upheaval in the American social hierarchy, necessitating that women enter the work force and thus empowering them to an unprecedented degree.  Also, the movie-going audience changed, with a larger proportion of females in the audience than men, since the majority of them were abroad fighting.  Finally, the cinema adjusted to address this new predominantly feminine audience, introducing female protagonists and feminine plotlines.  Heterosexual marital fulfillment often remained the ultimate goal in these films, with the rejection or failure to comply with this societal standard usually resulting in the heroine’s madness or death. 

When comparing Gothic films from the early 1940’s with those made later in the decade, the heroines of the earlier films harbor unwarranted suspicions of their husbands, while in the later films another male character is introduced who is thoroughly benevolent and succeeds in rescuing the heroine.  Still, the Gothic woman’s film differs from the conventional films preceding it because, for the first time, the heroine puts up some degree of resistance to compliance with traditional societal demands.  Indeed, the primary focus shifts from purely romance to violence and mystery, qualities shared with other genres such as film noir and horror.  This transgression by the plotline and the heroine of conventional expectations destabilizes and exposes gaps in the normative cinema structure, and the ambiguity created by this uncertainty is the source of suspense. 

Epitomizing the transgression beyond traditional boundaries is Rebecca, who represents the exact opposite of the young wife’s demure, conventional femininity.  Symbolized by the turbulent, crashing waves of the sea, Rebecca’s uncontrollable, unpredictable power creates a constant source of tension and disruption throughout the film.  Whenever the possibility of calm or resolution arises, a monogrammed belonging of Rebecca’s may appear, thrusting the plot back into uncertainty and chaos.  This atmosphere of paranoia and fear is highly characteristic of the Gothic woman’s film, and the transgression of traditionally feminine societal norms formed a basis for the eventual development of the feminist movement.

Light, Alison.  “‘Returning to Manderley’: Romance Fiction, Female Sexuality and Class.”  Feminist Review, No. 16 (Summer, 1984), pp. 7-25.

Light’s analysis begins with a plot summary of DuMaurier’s iconic novel, highlighting the role of the late Rebecca as the driving force behind the young heroine’s mounting fear and paranoia.  She addresses the criticism often plaguing romance narratives as simplistic and stereotyping, fostering an oppressive ideology towards women that unfailingly defines the ultimate goal to be heterosexual marriage.  Feminists argue that such a plotline is insulting to women, essentially suggesting that they belong in a socially and sexually subordinate place. 

Rebecca, however, is a slightly modified case, as it encompasses both the genres of romance and crime.  Rebecca herself is central to the development of both these genres, with her role as both the iconic epitome of feminine prowess, and the victim of murder which lends the narrative its elements of mystery and horror.  Accordingly, Light insists that the absolute core of both these components is Manderley itself, the zenith of Rebecca’s vicious, seductive femininity and yet also the place where the tenderness of true love manifests itself. 

The physical symbolism of the estate likewise functions to establish the harsh binary opposition between Rebecca and the young new wife.  Epitomized by the tame flower garden versus the wild, relentless torrent of the sea, the virginal young girl could not be a more polar opposite from the raw sensual power wielded by Rebecca even after her death.  Such a dichotomy appeals unfailingly to women because it is a struggle all women confront in their lifetimes, the pursuit of the feminine ideal, and the ardent desire for male approval.  Rebecca’s distinctive ability to address the age-old question of femininity and the struggle of women to achieve it is a testament to a time of transition both historically and fictionally.  In essence, despite criticism of the romance genre as trite and demeaning, it in fact deserves recognition in history as a springboard of popular discussion of the societal and sexual role of women.

Waldman, Diane.  “‘At Last I Can Tell It to Someone!’: Feminine Point of View and Subjectivity in the Gothic Romance Film of the 1940’s.”  Cinema Journal, Vol. 23, No. 2 (Winter, 1984), pp. 29-40.

During the period from 1940-48, Gothic romance films were produced by virtually every major Hollywood studio, using stars and famous directors.  Women were a major target of the film industry, as this period historically constituted a transition to increased sexual freedom, the introduction of birth control, and the possibility of a life separate from domesticity.  It was this role definition which served as the societal precondition which allowed for the success of the Gothic romance films of the 1940’s. 

A paradigmatic feature of Gothic film is deliberate ambiguity regarding the interpretation of happenings by the characters.  This is a hallmark quality shared by horror and fantasy films, however, in the Gothic variety, this hesitation is often experienced by a female protagonist, and her ultimate decision is thus a commentary on the feminine experience.  The Gothic romance film is therefore the first major example of the growing perception and portrayal of the female perspective, especially regarding men.  Constructing the common thematical framework of the heroine’s isolation, women’s restriction to the domestic sphere is often condemned, yet the heroine is still persistently rescued by some form of authoritative man.  The typical 1940’s American family was semi-patriarchal, encompassing a nominal decrease in the husband’s authoritarian power, yet retaining the sexual division of labor, which translates seamlessly to the feminine portrayals in Gothic films.  Hence, it is obvious that Gothic romance films mark the beginning of the transition to more widespread acknowledgement and understanding of the female position in society, but the genre by no means grants women the credibility and freedom they ultimately deserve.

Wada-Marciano, Mitsuyo. "Imaging Modern Girls." Nippon Modern: Japanese Cinema of the 1920s and 1930s. Honolulu: University of
     Hawai'i Press, 2008. 76-110.

In this chapter from Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano's books, the author explores the idea of the modern girl (or moga). Wada-Marciano claims that the "woman's film genre" reflects the discourse on the experience of modernity. She elaborates by saying that the function of the modern girl in movies was to give form to an "invisible, unacknowledged Japanese anxiety" (88). The chapter ends by considering the dichotomy between the modern girl and the traditional woman as representative of the Japanese society as a whole.

We can consider Omocha to be Sisters of the Gion's modern girl. When contrasted to the other characters around her, she demonstrates progressive ideas (notably, equality between men and women). If we consider her further to represent a problem in to the Japanese socioeconomic status quo, Omocha does not only represent the threat of feminism to the geisha tradition but also the threat of a powerful, modern women successfully manipulating men in order to achieve her desires. Meanwhile, Umekichi can be seen as the status quo; she is undemanding and willing to accept what life hands her.

Paige, Linda Rohrer. "Wearing the Red Shoes: Dorothy and the power of the female imagination in The Wizard of Oz." Journal of Popular Film and Television. Vol. 23 (Winter 1996). pp. 146-153. 28 November 2008 <http://proxy.library.upenn.edu:2659/hww/results/getResults.jhtml?_DARGS=/hww/results/results_common.jhtml.20#record_5>.

Linda Paige's article discusses the Wizard of Oz from a feminist perspective and suggests that the ruby red slippers, which Dorothy inherits from the Wicket Witch of the East, represent the power of the female imagination and the possibility of escaping mainstream, patriarchal society. When Dorothy puts on the slippers and begins her journey down the yellow brick road she is on her way to liberating herself from the traditional, domestic female role, which is reflected through Auntie Em's character. Paige reminds readers that when Dorothy is wearing the slippers she shows her strength and power as a female who has the ability to help her male counterparts find the essential elements of life which they lack. Moreover, Paige suggests that the color red represents passion, and spilled blood, and, as a result, Dorothy's journey in the slippers may be viewed as an act of rebellion against conventional society. However, when Dorothy decides to return home at the end of the film and, in turn, give up the slippers, she succumbs to the comfort of a traditional, male-dominated society.

This article is interesting because is offers an entirely new framework within which to view this classic film. During the 1930's the United States was riddled with unemployment and, as a result, women who went to work were seen as un-American for taking jobs away from unemployed men. In the case of The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy is "un-American" for attempting to revolt against conventionality and break the shackles of patriarchy. Paige's article coincides with the desire in America to maintain the traditional family because ultimately Dorothy takes off the slippers, leaves her powerful imagination behind, and regresses toward the traditional female role. Dorothy's overt desire to return home, which is exemplified when she clicks her heels and says "there's no place like home" three times, promotes conventional American values and suggests to viewers that the traditional, middle America family is the ideal. Paige's ideas about the slippers and, more importantly, Dorothy's final decision to return to Kansas, accurately reflect sentiments in the United States during the 1930s.

Thomas, Lynn M.  Politics of the womb : women, reproduction, and the state in Kenya.  Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2003.

Chapter three of Lynn Thomas’s book Politics of the womb: women, reproduction, and the state in Kenya talks about the ban on female excision (female genital cutting, a cultural and religious tradition in many African people groups) in Kenya from 1956-1959.  The ban resulted in a significant backlash, not from indigenous men in positions of leadership, but rather from young indigenous women.  Girls organized excisions on their own, as it was firmly believed that the coming-of-age ritual was necessary to live morally and even birth healthy children.  However, the girls didn’t follow all of the rituals, celebrations and formats of the traditional excision ceremony, which resulted in the older generation of women criticizing, and even not recognizing the excisions as legitimate.  Interestingly, this marked a significant shift in women’s mentality in Kenya.  The new generation of women represented a hybrid between rebellion against authority (both colonial and traditional), and preservation of tradition.

This article relates to the film Xala, and specifically to my thesis, in the way that demonstrates how one people group navigated the friction between traditionalism and modernism.  While the girls from this time period rejected the imposition of colonial modernism, they nonetheless diverged from complete traditionalism as well.  This generation even stood in rebellion to their maternal elders, who insisted upon the most “traditional” and thorough rituals associated with female excision.  The character and actions of Rama in Sembène’s film run parallel to the Kenyan girls’ attitude.

Okom, Mojúbàolú Olúfúnké.  “African Women and Power: Reflections on the Perils of Unwarranted Cosmopolitanism.”  Jenda: A Journal of Culture and African Women Studies 1:1.

This article explores African women’s positions of power in the pre and post-colonial eras.  The author first argues that it is incorrect to describe pre-colonial African women’s roles as “traditional,” as they had been steadily changing for centuries.  Not only that, but they varied dramatically from people group to people group.  The author focuses on one particular people group, the Yorùbá of Southern Nigeria, to demonstrate the rights and power exercised by women in the capacities of mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, political officials, owners of capital, monarchs, deities and religious leaders.  The author shows how women’s anatomical role as child-bearers was a position of honor in pre-colonial Africa.  Of particular interest was the rigid power structure within each clan of the Yorùbá people group.  Women belonging to the clan actually had authority over men that chose to marry into the clan.  Although the clan still operated as a patrimony, being a clan insider trumped sex.

As it relates to Xala, this article gives several real examples of how women in Africa can and do exercise power.  In Xala, we saw this in the way El Hadji’s first wife explicitly pointed out her superiority to the second and third wives both to her husband and to the other wives.  She could essentially hold her husband’s treatment of the second and third wives in check, and demand respect and submission from the other wives.  The author would also argue that many cultural “traditions” claimed by the males in the film were actually much less traditional than they claimed when one examines Africa’s history, which is very interesting.

Boris, Eileen.  “Gender After Africa!”  Africa After Gender.  Ed. Catherine M. Cole, Takyiwaa Manuh, and Stephan F. Miescher.  Bloomington, IN : Indiana University Press, 2007.  191-204.

Eileen Boris opens her essay by turning a common question asked by Western gender academics on its head. Instead of asking “What impact has gender as a category of analysis had on the study of Africa,” which in itself assumes Western thinkers have already arrived at a correct framework for studying gender, the author argues that a much more appropriate question is “What can Africa do for gender?” She explains how Western gender theorists have, until recently, incorrectly proposed their own historical gender tradition to be universal. Instead, historical African social and gender structures need to be used to enlarge the framework for academic gender theory. Additionally, she explores the similarities and differences between gender and other social attributes such as age, lineage, kinship and wealth for determining social status. Finally, she shows how African gender is a source of power in post-colonial political struggles.

In many ways, this article reveals the Western bias in my original thesis for this research project (I actually still retained the same thesis, as it is a case in point for Eileen Boris’s and many other African gender scholars). My thesis assumes that gender and feminism thought in Africa need a Western savior-that African women have to find a balance between their “primitive” gender tradition and the “correct” or “modern” Western ideas of gender and liberation. It also makes me wonder what opinions about gender roles director Ousmane Sembène might have had in mind when he released Xala. Most of the Western analysis of the film describe women in the film as “masculine,” and the men as “feminine,” but Boris’s article suggests such reviews assume Western gender stereotypes are universal. Did Sembène have this in mind as well?

    In Modleski's chapter on Notorious, she thoroughly examines Hitchcock's film through a feminist lens. She describes how the film both fits into and breaks away from the film noir genre, moving into the female Gothic genre in which the heroine has a more active and inquisitive role. Unlike typical noir films, Notorious' main character is a female, Alicia; the story centers around her conflict, and the audience sympathizes with her plight. She is not simply an object of male desire. Modleski then explores the characterizations of male as sadist and female as masochist, as often used by feminist film theory. She argues that while to a certain extent, Devlin and Alicia fit these roles, they are far too simple to explain the characters' complex relationship - Devlin shows signs of masochism in that he choses to watch Alicia be subjected to suffering, knowing full well that he is in love with her. Additionally, Alicia's masochism is not simply a sign of her weakness and submissiveness - she uses her pain as an outlet for anger and a source of emotional power over Devlin. Modleski also draws an interesting connection between Alicia's conflict - to do right by her country requires violating social codes of appropriate sexual behavior - and the postwar period in which the film was made. She compares Alicia's love vs. duty conflict to that of the wartime citizen, male or female, asked to set aside personal issues for the greater good of the country.

    The chapter is very useful for placing the film in a historical context, both in terms of the postwar period and the period preceding second wave feminism. It also gives clear illustrations of how Notorious strays from the neatly defined categories it is often lumped into, such as spy film, film noir, and suspense film. Finally, the article shows how Hitchcock's treatment of Alicia's character is both similar to and different from his portrayal of heroines in his other films.

Vlasopolos, Anca. “Victimization in ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’.” Theatre Journal, 38.3 (Oct.    1986):    322-338. Johns Hopkins Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadelphia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

This article is a fascinating look at Williams’ play from a feminist perspective. Anca Vlasopolos, an English professor, traces Blanche’s character throughout the novel and reveals the multiple facets of its inherently sexist nature. Though Blanche may be perceived as the heroine of Williams’ story, Vlasopolos argues that Blanche represents the female as the cliched “perfect victim,” and it is this fact that makes Williams’ work a “problem,” or regressive, piece of writing. To readers, Blanche appears to be the epitome of a “Southern belle”—her language is prim and flowery, her outfits are glamorous, her face is full of makeup, her education is extensive—yet she is also the prey of an undeniable patriarchy that persists in an era of “progress.” Vlasopolos claims that the allusions of Williams’ writing, which are also evident in Kazan’s direction of the Streetcar film, reveal this discrimination.
She believes that Blanche is disadvantaged in every way: though beautiful, she is, more importantly, homeless, unwanted, alone, physically weak, and incapable of upholding her responsibilities. Even when she seeks to control the littler things, such as lighting, decor, and costume, she fails. Blanche only appears to be an authority figure when arguing over the ownership of her family estate, Belle Reve, yet even in this sense she proves incompetent, as she is the one who mismanaged the land. Thus, while Blance’s descent into mental illness may be viewed as a happy ending, as this break from reality ultimately frees her from the chains of the Kowalski household, Vlasopolos believes that she is merely a caricature of a gender-determined exclusion from society. Aside from obvious chauvinism, Vlasopolos manages to reveal sexist subtleties such as Stanley and Blanche’s uncanny similarities and the representation of Blanche as an allegory for characters such as the Grim Reaper, the goddess Daphne, and other legends. In this way, Vlasopolos’ analysis of Streetcar reaches depths that no reader can discern the first time they read Williams’ play. The beauty of Williams’ work lies in the layers of his prose, and it is these intricacies that Kazan emulates in his 1951 film. Her criticisms may be controversial, but it is these critiques that made Streetcar one of the most contentious works of the mid-twentieth century.
 

Leibman, Nina C. “Sexual Misdemeanor/Psychoanalytic Felony.” Cinema Journal, 26.2 (Winter,    1987):    27-38. University of Texas Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadephia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

In this article, Leibman analyzes the deterioration of Blanche’s mental health, and relates it to both Freudian theory and inherent sexism in Hollywood. A specialist of psychoanalysis in film theory, Leibman comments on the rising predominance of women in Freudian-oriented films after the 1950s. To her, sex and sexuality appear to be the essential factors for a heroine’s mental illness, and a protagonist falling victim to her own sexuality is no exception in Streetcar. Though the actual cause of Blanche’s developing insanity is unknown to audiences, Leibman believes that her promiscuity is what ultimately leads to her downfall. Taking psychiatry into account, Leibman believes that Hollywood maintains an inherent patriarchal status quo by ignoring Freud’s theories of repression and neurosis. Freud states that it is important to release our repressed sexual thoughts in order to avoid any form of psychosis—and because Blanche does not succeed in liberating these notions, she is essentially “punished” for her restraint through expulsion from her hometown and family, along with paranoia and other forms of mental illness.
Even though Blanche continually professes her innocence, all her of claims are nullified by her behavior. However, because viewers hear of these improprieties indirectly, it is harder for her to earn an audience’s sympathy. In comparison, Leibman claims that Stella, who may initially seem to embody an almost longing for her husband, is also victim to this psychological sexism. While her attraction to Stanley is blatant, the fact that she loves him rather than lusts for him reemphasizes the fact that desire is what “destroys” women. Thus, Leibman argues that because Stella is passive she is feminine, while Blanche’s overt sexuality keeps her from traditionally female ideals, such as a calm, selfless, nurturing disposition. Though Leibman’s claims may not be grounded in fact, she provides a provocative counterargument for those who celebrate Streetcar’s progressive representations of modern society.
 

Leibman, Nina C. “Sexual Misdemeanor/Psychoanalytic Felony.” Cinema Journal, 26.2 (Winter,    1987):    27-38. University of Texas Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadephia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

 In this article, Leibman analyzes the deterioration of Blanche’s mental health, and relates it to both Freudian theory and inherent sexism in Hollywood. A specialist of psychoanalysis in film theory, Leibman comments on the rising predominance of women in Freudian-oriented films after the 1950s. To her, sex and sexuality appear to be the essential factors for a heroine’s mental illness, and a protagonist falling victim to her own sexuality is no exception in Streetcar. Though the actual cause of Blanche’s developing insanity is unknown to audiences, Leibman believes that her promiscuity is what ultimately leads to her downfall. Taking psychiatry into account, Leibman believes that Hollywood maintains an inherent patriarchal status quo by ignoring Freud’s theories of repression and neurosis. Freud states that it is important to release our repressed sexual thoughts in order to avoid any form of psychosis—and because Blanche does not succeed in liberating these notions, she is essentially “punished” for her restraint through expulsion from her hometown and family, along with paranoia and other forms of mental illness.
Even though Blanche continually professes her innocence, all her of claims are nullified by her behavior. However, because viewers hear of these improprieties indirectly, it is harder for her to earn an audience’s sympathy. In comparison, Leibman claims that Stella, who may initially seem to embody an almost longing for her husband, is also victim to this psychological sexism. While her attraction to Stanley is blatant, the fact that she loves him rather than lusts for him reemphasizes the fact that desire is what “destroys” women. Thus, Leibman argues that because Stella is passive she is feminine, while Blanche’s overt sexuality keeps her from traditionally female ideals, such as a calm, selfless, nurturing disposition. Though Leibman’s claims may not be grounded in fact, she provides a provocative counterargument for those who celebrate Streetcar’s progressive representations of modern society.
 

Leibman, Nina C. “Sexual Misdemeanor/Psychoanalytic Felony.” Cinema Journal, 26.2 (Winter,    1987):    27-38. University of Texas Press. University of Pennsylvania Library, Philadephia. 7 April 2008. <http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/6965/2>.

 In this article, Leibman analyzes the deterioration of Blanche’s mental health, and relates it to both Freudian theory and inherent sexism in Hollywood. A specialist of psychoanalysis in film theory, Leibman comments on the rising predominance of women in Freudian-oriented films after the 1950s. To her, sex and sexuality appear to be the essential factors for a heroine’s mental illness, and a protagonist falling victim to her own sexuality is no exception in Streetcar. Though the actual cause of Blanche’s developing insanity is unknown to audiences, Leibman believes that her promiscuity is what ultimately leads to her downfall. Taking psychiatry into account, Leibman believes that Hollywood maintains an inherent patriarchal status quo by ignoring Freud’s theories of repression and neurosis. Freud states that it is important to release our repressed sexual thoughts in order to avoid any form of psychosis—and because Blanche does not succeed in liberating these notions, she is essentially “punished” for her restraint through expulsion from her hometown and family, along with paranoia and other forms of mental illness.
Even though Blanche continually professes her innocence, all her of claims are nullified by her behavior. However, because viewers hear of these improprieties indirectly, it is harder for her to earn an audience’s sympathy. In comparison, Leibman claims that Stella, who may initially seem to embody an almost longing for her husband, is also victim to this psychological sexism. While her attraction to Stanley is blatant, the fact that she loves him rather than lusts for him reemphasizes the fact that desire is what “destroys” women. Thus, Leibman argues that because Stella is passive she is feminine, while Blanche’s overt sexuality keeps her from traditionally female ideals, such as a calm, selfless, nurturing disposition. Though Leibman’s claims may not be grounded in fact, she provides a provocative counterargument for those who celebrate Streetcar’s progressive representations of modern society.
 

Haskell’s interpretation of the dynamics surrounding this complex character reveals marriage as something a woman is forced into rather than something she wishes to be a part of.  The deep threat that Marnie poses for Rutland leaves him feeling out of control and emasculated so he gives her an ultimatum; marry him or go to jail.  He feels somehow responsible for curing his new wife, or perhaps from a more sinister perspective, controlling her life will counteract how easily manipulated he felt by her stealing from him.  Hitchcock makes it unclear whether Mark is more intent on curing Marnie out of genuine concern for her or for the reward of knowing that he actually has the capability to do so.  Either way, his interest in human behavior, coming from his background in zoology, clearly explains why Marnie is just another case study for him.

Wilson, Elizabeth. "Audrey Hepburn: fashion, film, and the 50s." in Women and Film: a Sight and Sound Reader, Eds. Pam Cook and Philip Dodd. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1993.

Elizabeth Wilson's piece is mainly a reflection on the admiration and fascination that the author felt for Audrey Hepburn as she was coming of age in the 1950s and 1960s. Wilson expands on this by asking why she felt this for Hepburn, rather than the Marilyn Monroes or Elizabeth Taylors of Hollywood. She traces this back to Hepburn's fashion, particularly as her style reflected her characters. Hepburn was the antithesis to the artificial, confined American domesticity promoted by Hollywood in that era, as evidenced by her aura of European sophistication. The apparel (and attitude) evident in her films, Wilson argues, were the forerunners of a new movement of minimalist and free youth fashion: a revolution, almost.
Transformation was a key theme in many of Hepburn's films, such as the chauffeur's-daughter into society-princess story of Sabrina. Even when these changes are visually represented by upgraded fashion, such as in Sabrina, Wilson holds that there is still an air of freedom surrounding Hepburn: her Givenchy dresses seemed modern, not matronly, and the fact that this actress had the choice of being outfitted by a true Parisian designer was a testament to the power Hepburn's style held over her audiences. Though many of her films may end with Hepburn's free-spirited characters succumbing to "adult life," Wilson contends that Hepburn showed young women of the era that they had more choices than simple domesticity, and created an entire style to prove it.

Guy, Alison and Banim, Maura. "Personal Collections: Women's clothing use and identity." Journal of Gender Studies, 9.3 (2000): 313

Though “Personal Collections” has no distinct connection to Sabrina or even the medium of film, it is a study of the relationship between women and their perception of clothing, which is largely the basis of the popularity of Audrey Hepburn among such women. She represented everything they hoped to be, in terms of style, and this remained with them throughout their lives (as Moseley discussed). The authors contend that clothing is often associated with negative experiences, particularly related to women’s gender identities; women are forever contained by a fear of the patriarchal system that can distort self-image and perception of the self and others. However, fashion can also offer the converse to this: it is the chance for freedom, experimentation, self-discovery. The study puts forth three different views of the self as projected through one’s clothing: “The woman I want to be,” “The woman I fear I could be,” and “The woman I am most of the time.”
Perceptions of Hepburn lie in the first category, “The woman I want to be.” Fans have aspirations of clothing in order to create an image perceived as successful: images that have already been realized in another capacity and seem achievable to at least some extent. In movies like Sabrina, Hepburn represents archetypes of feminine success, such as the transformation into an exotic sophisticate and Sabrina’s eventual winning of a husband. Yet while the aspirations may be standard, the authors hold that aspiring for such an image works as a form of rebellion and experimentation: women may actively engage with clothing to create an image that is consistent with aspects of their real or perceived identity. It is the yearning for this perceived identity that has played an enormous role in the continuous popularity of Hepburn’s films.

Krolokke begins her essay by recapping recent research in gender and language in cyberspace, including the role of "grrrls" who specifically resist male domination.  She then describes her study of 5 MSN channels of Internet Relay Chat (IRC): gay chat, lesbian chat, transgender/transsexual chat, politics2000 chat, and African-American chat for what she calls "playful chat".  She analyzes the transcribed speech for 4 types of language play: abbreviations, paralinguistic cues, hybrid language, and insulting speech. Krolokke uses performance theory to explain gender play online such that she considers "linguistic gender" to mean performing a speech pattern that follows social and cultural expectations or stereotypes associated with the speech of that gender. She explains that in some cases,  "IRC provides a space for participants to play out their most convincing performances of parodic linguistic identities."  As such, she provides an argument away from earlier linguists who argued about the inherent differences in male/female communication and towards later "third wave" linguists who see all communication and all contexts as marked for gender, not the speaker him or herself.

Danielle St-Laurent explores the evolution of spy novel covers, grounding the essay in an anecdote explaining the intrigue of first seeing an attractive man pick up a thriller with a pin-up girl on the cover. St-Laurent examinesthe critical shift in the roles of women on the covers of spy novels over the course of the 20th century.

She references Klimt and Muncha as marking "the beginnings of the use of women in advertising and, by extension, on the covers of spy novels" (277). Many early spy novels covers featured men as the primary subject, with women in various states of undress relegated to the background. Even as women came to the fore of the covers in the 1930s and 1940s, a clear subjugation of the female gender remained; hieratic ideals (with their roots in Egyptian iconography) such as larger and darker-skinned male figures continued to be employed.

Over time, the covers evolved further, with women depicted in minimal clothing, and, often, fully nude [N.B., St-Laurent examines covers in French Canada, where there is less prudity regarding nudity]. A number of other conventions come into play as well: almost all the women are young (under 30), white, depicted frontally to emphasize primary sex characteristics. Furthermore, the women, almost without exception, are depicted with a gun, and gaze beyond the scope of the cover, thus enlarging the pictorial space to envelop the viewer.

""In imaging female subjectivity and addressing the spectator as female, feminist filmmakers have created films which transform and innovate cinematic codes and conventions." Smelik switches the focus of feminist discourse from spectator to filmmaker. Unwilling to revive the auteur theory, which she considers to be elitist and phallocentric, she nevertheless investigates the works of such filmmakers as Sander, Campion, Treut, and Adlon and discovers ways in which they subvert traditional cinematic subjectivity, affect, and modes of representation. Smelik's arguments are, of course, deeply rooted in the feminist theory of Lacan, Mulvey, Silverman, Kaplan, Irigaray, et al., but she also includes such figures as Eisenstein and Barthes. She does not privilege any particular theory but uses whatever works for the particular filmmaker she is dealing with. Her choice of films is as refreshing as her method: one is too used to reading about the same feminist films in book after book. Smelik's knowledge of the field is encyclopedic, and her analyses are consistently persuasive. This welcome addition to the ongoing feminist discourse is recommended for upper-division undergraduates through faculty." (Choice, February 1999)