Men, Women, Love, Hate, and The Girl

This is a discussion of a Swedish movie I recently watched — The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The literal Swedish title is “Men Who Hate Women.” The movie is the first installment of a series that is based on the best-selling novels of the same names. However, I would like to consider the movie by itself in order to retain the ambiguities and provocativeness that could serve as a platform for discussions.

I thought that the movie would be another thriller rote, with conspicuous advertisements of Apple computers, cigarette, coffee, and Heinz ketchup to boost (this part is true). In addition, I was put off by the romance between an old man and a young woman that I saw in the trailers. Not that I’m against relationship with a big age gap, but I’ve never seen a well-done portrayal of it (this part is still true). But I was intrigued when finding that the novel’s author wrote it partly because of his witnessing a gang rape and failing to help the girl. This is revealed by the author’s partner, according to Wikipedia, and I don’t know how much of it is true, but in any case, it piqued my curiosity. So I watched it without many anticipations, and found it to be a decent thriller with a number of rather progressive notions. (So if you intend to  but haven’t seen the movie, you should do so before reading further).

Lisbeth, the movie’s female protagonist, holds my main interest. Her story is not of innocent victimhood nor complete self-determination. This kind of story is not exactly original but the movie did it quite well. Although there’re many hints that she had a difficult childhood, the only concrete thing of her past that the audience see is of her throwing fuel on a man, light him up and watch him burn. At the end of the movie, she watched the serial rapist and killer burn to death in his own turned-over car. She does not actively kill him, but the scene is awfully reminiscent of her childhood incident, for both her and the audience. It is unclear how much the movie asks its audience to empathize with her. It is unclear how much of a victim or perpetrator she is. In this sense, the movie resist the rote story of innocent helpless victimhood.

Lisbeth does not see herself as a victim at all, not in childhood or in the present. When she visited her mom at the psychiatric hospital at the end of the movie, her mom apologized to her, “I should’d got you a better father.” But she replied, “We know that you’re the one he hurt.” Perhaps it is partly because she hasn’t had the chance or been encouraged to feel like a victim. The state institution identifies her as a perpetrator since her childhood incident. It forces her to have a “guardian” even at age 24 and who knows until when, not to protect her but to observe and manage her. She also had no institutionalized protection when her new guardian abused her. So she took matter in her own hand, though she did not anticipate getting raped.

In order to access her own money that is legally controlled the guardian, she gave him a blow job when he forced her to. We see how serious she is about her work. She wouldn’t be in any extreme condition without that money, the only thing immediately at stake was her work. But he gave a much lesser amount than she asked for. So she devices an audacious plan to take back control of her money hence economic freedom, using herself as bait to catch the guardian. After the unanticipated rape, she is shaken but not shattered or traumatized like in usual rape stories. She continued her plan, just like she did when being harassed by a gang of men in the subway. Rape and harassment are obstacles in her path, different levels of pain, indeed, but the rape was not something that violate or damage the core of her being or her femininity.

What the movie offers here is an imaginative vision of femininity–a not so innocent woman who doesn’t see herself as a victim and isn’t helpless, a rather extreme illustration, nonetheless one that I have not seen in the mass media, mainstream or alternative. As I wrote before, an emphasis on sexuality as a core being of a woman can have a regressive effect on feminist movements. But we must not simply equate rape with harassment, and certainly must not put the burden on the perpetrated to “just get over it.”

The movie is progressive in another way. Although the main story is an investigation and discovery of a father-son legacy of raping and killing women, the most graphic scene of misogyny is the guardian’s rape of Lisbeth. It compels audience to confront the fact that violence against women are not only committed by completely depraved men, but also by men who work and live like most typical people, except they also abuse their power over women. Indeed, Men Who Hate Women could be their “guardians” and could even “love” women, as long as they just behave how the men want.

Lisbeth’s retaliated rape of the guardian is also graphic. Again, the film is not setting her up as helpless or innocent. She is very capable of being a perpetrator. Has she been given institutionalized protection, I wonder what kind of person she would’ve became. Wendy Brown wrote that “Whether one is dealing with the state, the Mafia, parents, pimps, police, or husbands, the heavy price of institutionalized protection is always a measure of dependence and agreement to abide by the the protector’s rules” (States of Injury). What the nation state “protector” requires is not only that one follows the law that it legally writes, but that one must also be the image of woman and victim–one who is already subject to men’s power and will continue to be subject to the patriarchal state.

The male protagonist of the movie, Mikael, is not given as much complex background and personality, unfortunately. It is revealed that Lisbeth was driven by her desire to follow the missing-girl case that Mikael is hired to solve. Eventually, they worked together on the case. Living in the same house in an isolated small town, they had sex a few times, but there’s no sign of her attachment toward him. On the other hand, Mikael is clearly attracted to her. He is a gentle, polite man, and he respects her boundary. But it is still a big jump to have Lisbeth suddenly falling for him. I’m not saying that it’s impossible for men and women to have truly loving relationships. But the movie leaves viewers with only a Cinderella tale when it ignores the particulars of trust and intimacy, while doing to so well in exploring mistrust and violence.

After Lisbeth let the serial killer die in his own car, Mikael questioned her morality. Then he relented: “I would never have done that, Lisbeth. But I understand why you did it. I don’t know what you’ve been through. But I almost die in that cellar, and you saved my life. Whatever it is you’ve been through, you don’t have to tell me. I’m just glad you’re here.” She uttered a soft simple “thanks” and slowly moved her hand to hold his. At ten minutes before the movie ends, this is the first sign of her genuine attachment and emotional need (for anyone/thing). She does not appreciate him because he promised not to judge her, he already judged in comparing himself to her. Rather, she is happy because he is “glad” to have her with him. His significance to Lisbeth is further made clear in her only conversation with her mom, and when she visited him in prison. She tried to keep distance but gave in and kissed him, then scurried off like an embarrassed school girl. Her clothes, makeup, shoes now are much softer than her image in the beginning.

The movie wants its audience to see their heroine finally being truly happy, as a Woman, that is. The Girl, a fierce and capable woman in the beginning, turns into a school girl who is emotionally fulfilled when she finds a man to love (for no good reason that audience can see), and be able to help him in his work. We turn right back to the same old image of women and femininity.

Meeting, Approaching, Being Approached, Passing Through

Trier, Germany–

She offered him some tobacco and rolling paper.  She felt easy approaching strangers when she traveled.  Something about the foreignness and the temporality of her presence let her curiosity revealed itself frankly.  Her train had arrived around five in the morning, and she had an extra hour to spend.  The town square was half asleep with a few morning birds and early souls, and him–sitting on the steps of the statue at the square’s center, young, unkempt, with a large backpack.  Perhaps he was also a traveler like her.  They smoked and talked, though his English was not fluent and her German was nonexistent.  He was homeless.  Just coming from Berlin, she suggested that he move there, where street culture seemed to be alive.  To her surprise, he left Berlin to avoid the police and bullying.  The sun worked steadily to climb over the surrounding buildings, Renaissance and Baroque style.  She noticed the intricate colors of his iris, tiny shards of dark green and blue and brown.  She wanted to take a picture, but did not ask.  Oddly, she felt rude about wanting to capture his color with her camera.

Portland, Oregon–

He approached her companion at the bus stop, though they were sitting next to each other.  Heavy bag on one shoulder, saggy posture, a white line of saliva dried on one corner of his mouth.  Her companion refused to give him money but held out the banana she was eating.  She couldn’t catch all his slurring, but  he didn’t want no banana and turned to her instead.  She also offered him a banana, not partially eaten.  He didn’t want no whole banana either.  Amid his persistent demand, large spits escaped his mouth.  She felt uneasy but wasn’t sure what to do.  Her companion stopped talking to him and threw away her banana.  He irritatedly denied spitting.  After awhile, he threw “go back to china” at them and walked away.  She was baffled at her first blatant racial insult, by a homeless man, no less.  Later on, they asked themselves who he was giving his last line to.

Guangzhou, China–

She liked him right when they met, so she thought.  White european, thick curly hair almost shoulder length.  Over a hookah, he told fairy tale of his past love.  A tale he could not finish writing.  His tears rolled undramatically, unembarrassed.  Who wouldn’t love a man, or a woman, who can cry like that.  Strangers meeting in a strange land, they traveled together five or six days.  They talked easily, played chess silently at the airport, tipsy danced in front for a bar to their own music.  And he shared with her his loneliness, being a natural flirt in a country where women acted reserved, or have teeth so ugly that he could not look at them.  He was so lonely, he was bitter, annoyed at the coy women who wouldn’t return his smile and his gaze.  He became much happier in the big city where they met, where the economy was more service and sale oriented, and the women were more receptive, more used to white foreigners.

Honolulu, Hawai‘i–

He was just like a puppy, eager to do good and be praised.  He was also the exact image of a white liberal American man.  In their feminist theory class, he recounted moments when he learned to recognize minorities’ struggles with such self-satisfying joy.  But he had a baby face and smiled frequently while talking, so she felt okay chatting with him.  She even teased him a little about how he blushed bright red when he tried to hold in his laughter.  They ran into each other one time, when he was on his way to teach his undergraduate class, and she was leaving campus.  She wasn’t sure it was him because of his straight face and dark sunglasses, but he called out to her.  He started talking about his teaching trick (cupcakes), his philosophy on democracy, his marriages, and how he “expertly” handled his conservative Filipino in-law family.  When they said good bye, she looked at the time and kicked herself for standing there for forty five minutes, rarely saying anything other than ‘really’ and ‘hm’.

being reminded of worldly events

i came across a number of materials recently and i want to write something about them, but i don’t have a clear idea so i wait, but the more time passes the more ideas drift further from me.

two selves of evil: i learned a new word – ‘psychohistory.’  anyway, about a year ago, i started wondering how human beings could withstand the direct intensity of another suffering human at the moment when they strike the other.  i’m thinking of extreme (yet numerous) cases where violence is performed directly like in war ground combats, rapes, and interpersonal abuses between children and parents, spouses, comrades, etc… a section of this article mentions the researcher finding humanity in nazi doctors. i wonder if the answer for my question is in this book.

toshi maruki and iri maruki: i finally went to my new city’s public library and signed up for a card. first dvd i checked out is a double feature–hiroshima no pika, and hellfire: a journey from hiroshima. i was reluctant because i worried that it would be like grave of the fireflies–an anime i watched a long time ago without knowing what it was, and afraid to watch again. but since pika was watercolor, i hoped it would be gentler.  it was indeed “gentler,” but i also learned things unexpected from both features, especially from hellfire.

the red market: old news in a new light. indian refugee camp for survivors of 2004′s massive tsunami is known as kidneyville. guess who’re selling their kidney — women; for how much — $1000. one should wonder if the women in Japan after the recent disaster need to sell their body parts.

consumer eugenics: also old news in a new light. educated women in China are choosing to abort baby girls to have baby boys (who are choosing again?), while american going for in vitro choose to have girls.  the author says both are the same consumer eugenics.

addition:

“forgotten holocaust”: one of the things i didn’t expect to hear about in hellfire was the nanking massacre, and what a coincident that a new movie about it is coming to the usa.

Hormonal

When I was between 16 and 18, I considered taking birth control pills to stabilize my mood many times.  My moodiness, which correlates with my monthly cycle drove me crazy (We’re not even talking about how I drove the people around me crazy because of my mood).  I never looked into how those pill actually work, but several years later I found out that many types could make you feel even worse, and doctors don’t often warn women about it.  I told myself: good thing I didn’t try them.  In retrospect, I think that besides the hormonal factor, I was also in the transition between the helpless, self-depreciating ages of 13 to 15, and the new sense of agency from knowing more, going out more, and being legal to work.  The hormonal condition stays with me today and I appreciate it, not always but often enough for me to say so.  I can become very reflective at those times, even occasionally realize things long in the past that I never thought of before.  I actively enjoy writing then.  And when I get to be alone, I truly enjoy the nothingness, with a coffee and cigarette that I rarely smoke anymore.  Memories slip forth, thoughts gently murmur, body’s at rest.

Food, Labor, Capitalism – part 2

A local “alternative” weekly newspaper published an article on a recent pop-up restaurant, where I worked for a while.  Here’s most of it (I edited the names for privacy sake):

These Ethiopian nights began rather serendipitously. “M. has always been an entertainer,” says her husband J. S. For years, they’d fill their cramped University of Hawaii faculty apartment with people until the neighbors complained … and M. would serve up food that she’s been cooking since she was 8. The oldest of six siblings, she was enlisted early on by her mother to help cook for the family.
But as any chef and restauranteur knows, cooking for friends and family doesn’t always translate into a successful restaurant. … So far, it seems promising; more than 200 diners attended M.’s first three dinners.
As with any new food establishment, M. and J. are still working out some issues like sourcing. They order many of the spices online, but their current supply of teff, used for making injera, was hand-carried in 50-pounds bags on the plane after a recent trip to Washington, DC. Then there’s also the issue of labor. “Nobody knows how to cook the food,” M. says. “It takes [a] long time to teach people.” Not that she’s unwilling to train them. Rather, she sees it as an opportunity to “teach my culture…exchange,” she says. “Food is sharing. I think [it's] important.”

The image presented here is completely different from what I experienced, saw, and heard when I worked there.  What’s sad and crazy is that I don’t really think the journalist is lazy in her research, or that the couple told a false story.

Poetic Temptation of the Masochistic

So in a perverse way I welcome this ritual of retribution, this so visible breakdown, this coughing aching feverish folly.  I embrace the decay–because it is visible, so evidently somatic.  Otherwise, you exist in the world, move through social space as though “together.”  But the sensation is of being in pieces–a smashing, splintering, aching.  All wanting, needing.

<The Smoking Book>

Forces of the Humans

I’ve been wondering frustratedly why my dad became so depressive and withdrawn (from both the social and his own family).  My mom, sister, and I often tried to change my dad (or perhaps more accurately, asked and told him to change).  Particularly in the past three months, the person that I see him as now seems vastly different from the cheerful and independent man I saw him as in Vietnam.  I used to think that it’s because he misses his homeland and siblings.  I thought that he has trouble integrating since he’s desperately holding on to his Vietnamese mentality because American culture is so oppositely different for him.

After my third day working in a restaurant, the answer coldly stares at me straight in the face.  I’m hired as a waitress but I talk to people in the kitchen and see their working condition.  I should say “life condition” because those people work sixty hours a week in the confine of that kitchen and one another.  Most of them speak the same ethnic language, many of them don’t know English well, some don’t know any.  The unlucky worker who doesn’t speak English nor the ethnic language won’t be able to talk with the other at all.  Their tasks, once learned, don’t stimulate creativity or many skills useful outside of that work.  Their conversations don’t encourage them to venture outside of their social circumstance, but dig into their isolatingly personal world.  If someone doesn’t participate in this kind of chat, they’re likely to be shunned by the rest.  The only thing that keeps them there is the low wage that prevents them to pay for livelihood past the month, and the sugary words of the boss who always says that they’re a family at work.

This is the kind of life my dad has in the last eight years.  And to a similar extent, my mom’s life is, too. Now I feel cruel for not being able to understand my parents, for getting angry at who they’ve become.  When I confided my frustration to my friend and sister before, they advised me to be more patient with my parents because they’re old and their mentality is set, so it’s hard for them to change.  But I couldn’t accept that reason because I see the kind of persons my parents were in Vietnam as resourceful and determined.  But now I see, with my own eyes, it wouldn’t be a wonder if they have trouble integrating with the new culture, if they become withdrawn.  What culture, what life.

Why and how do people change or not change?  We talk about the forces of nature, of God, of psychology and biology, and of ideology and “ism’s.”  But what about the human-produced conditions of our daily life and the people who surround us everyday.