Thinking about the Slutwalk.

So, clearly, given my leaning toward equality and my complete disgust for the general perception and handling of rape in most societies, I thought that whole Slutwalk thing was brilliant. The idea behind it -- that anyone may be raped, regardless of what they were wearing, and that none of them either asked for or deserved it -- seems so mind-crushingly obvious to me that it almost causes me physical pain that it has to be said aloud, let alone that some people argue with it. 

Tonight I came across a profoundly self-loathing essay written by a depressingly unintelligent woman named Chelsea Fagan. 

I have, like pretty much every 22-year-old girl, gone out looking like a slut occasionally. And I got a significantly higher amount of leers, cat calls, and uncomfortable attention. I was not surprised; I had no one but myself to blame for the sudden nervous feeling that flared up in my stomach as I walked passed men checking out my shape in my revealing dress. I don’t dress like this anymore for that very reason. I want men to look at me and have thoughts other than, “I could have sex with her tonight if I wanted.”

This paragraph alone is stunningly near-sighted. "I had no one but myself to blame for the sudden nervous feeling that flared up in my stomach as I walked passed men checking out my shape in a revealing dress." Really? Really?

A) At 22 years old, you are not a girl. You are a woman. In Western society, identifying or being identified as a child when one is clearly not is insulting, demeaning, and has been associated with slavery and racism. It equates you with people who cannot live an independent life, which I'm sure is completely coincidental, oh hi thousands of years of gender-based subjugation. Cut that shit out.

B) passed? Look, I can see you have a bit of trouble on the intellectual level, but correct spelling and grammar is a joy we can all share in.

C) If you feel like you are at increased risk of assault because you're wearing tight clothing, that is not your fault. That is the fault of the men who assault women, the society that promotes sexual violence as titillation, and everyone who perpetuates the myth that the only women who get raped are dressed "slutty".

Aside from all that, there is no such thing as "slutty". The idea of a "slut" is a completely subjective thing. It changes from person to person. What looks slutty to your grandmother is probably completely different to what looks slutty to any given 15-year-old schoolgirl. "Slut" isn't even connected exclusively to clothing -- oh, no.

This photo turned up in a Google image search for "slut".

If she doesn't look slutty, that's alright, she can still act slutty, or have a slutty history, or say something slutty, or hell, maybe you just don't like her. It's a nebulous concept, and that is exactly why it's so convenient: it can be slapped on any woman, anywhere, at any time. It's completely meaningless. And it is certainly not justification for assault.

Women are pressured, followed, and hounded by men who, when sober and in the light of day, often would never do such a thing. And for a man, a sexually and visually driven man not in full command of his wits, having a woman tell him “no” while wearing the most provocative, arousing, blatantly sexual outfit possible is, to say the least, confusing. And while that does not give him the right to violate her, it also cannot be claimed that women are entirely innocent in this situation.

Er...yes, it can. If a man is so completely out of control of his instincts around attractive women when he's drunk that he cannot help raping them, I'm pretty sure he belongs in prison. I'm also bewildered by the idea that when a woman dresses "provocatively" (which is a relative concept, again) that means she is looking for sex from anyone at all, regardless of what she says. "Slutty" clothes are apparently implicit permission to all men who lay eyes on her to have sex with her, and if she isn't quick and loud and strong enough to withdraw her implicit consent, well, that's her fault. It's another nonsensical facet of the delicious subject of slut-shaming that it is supposedly so awful for a woman to want sex, and dress in a way she considers sexy, that any woman who does is therefore deserving of rape.

Over 80% of sexual assaults are committed by friends, acquaintances or family members of the victim. It has absolutely nothing to do with how they're dressed, or how much makeup they're wearing, or whether the news is on. Rape is always completely and utterly the fault of the rapist. This is a fact, not an opinion, but it's one an alarmingly small number of people seem to acknowledge.

Allow me to take a few minutes to rhapsodise about Damien Rice.

Yes, I'm well aware how very late I am to this realization, but Damien Rice writes amazing songs.

We might make out when nobody's there

It's not that we're scared

It's just that it's delicate

So why do you fill my sorrow

With the words you've borrowed

From the only place you've known

And why do you sing Hallelujah

If it means nothing to you

Why do you sing with me at all?

So, it is entirely possible that I just have a very generic and predictable life, and it is entirely possible that the phrases were just general enough that almost anything could be read into them, but I spent around seven hours last night immersing myself in these songs and I found myself pleasantly surprised by how very appropriate some of the lyrics seemed to be to my immediate situation. 'Hey!' says I, 'I know what that's like!' We bonded, Damien and I. I swear. It was magical. 

And what I am to you
Is not real

And what I am to you

You do not need

And what I am to you

Is not what you mean to me

You give me miles and miles of mountains

And I ask for the sea

I'm unsure how to react to this chorus, other than to say: yes. This, exactly. Phrasing so perfect, I can barely handle it.

I came.

Just trust me, I didn't know whether I was grinning or crying the first time I heard it. That's how unexpectedly accurate it was.

Now, I don't want to be one of those stupid fucks who are so insistent in their fangirl/boying that they end up issuing a ridiculous and completely untrue ultimatum like "if you don't ___ this ___, you are [insert bad thing]", but if you don't get that this song is beautiful, you don't have a soul.

Every time I come across a video of this man speaking, I grin like an idiot.

So how do they do it, these people for whom the naked vulnerability of the act of giving flowers creates no fear? -- who are somehow capable of thinking, 'I fancy this girl; I should let her know. Tell you what -- I'll declare it unilaterally, in the most unequivocal way possible.' How does that make them in any way sane or human?

This precious, precious man, who would no doubt object to my referring to him as 'precious',  gives me hope for humanity. Even if he lacks an appreciation for coffee and New Who, he's so eloquent about his dislike that I don't particularly mind.

Having said that, this video:

does conjure a certain amount of...

before my rational mind kicks in and reminds me that
a) it's some guy's opinion,
b) we don't pick on the Classic Who fans just because they don't get New Who, and,
c) Classic Who fans do tend to be polarized over the new series.

Look at all the fucks I give.

Aside from which, he goes on to raise an interesting point about the prevalence of things aimed at children which are also accessible to adults. I'm calling it 'interesting' because unlike 99% of everything else David Mitchell has to say, I actually disagree with him on this one. Oh, not about the idea itself - of course, there are plenty of things fitting that description floating around nowadays. Harry Potter, for instance. 

And as soon as the thought occurred to me, I had to admit that no, that's actually quite a generalised, and thus ignorant, way of looking at it. For the first few books in the series, yes -- for the series as a whole, not at all. By the time the last book rolls around, you are acutely aware that this is not really children's literature anymore. If anything it's become an elaborate, deeply political allegory for a number of very serious subjects including racism and war. That's not to say that children's literature can't be all of those things -- the Narnia books come to mind -- but the tone and style of the novels evolve to the point where they are unmistakeably aimed at people who are probably too old to be considered a 'child audience'. And that is just one facet of the brilliance of that series: the books grow up with you. 

Of course, that may not be immediately obvious to someone who has never read them.

Another series that comment reminded me of is one which is so comfortably nestled between 'children's fiction' and 'young adult fiction' that it has been marketed as both of those things, and as adult fiction, in various countries: His Dark Materials, by Philip Pullman, who apparently has a bone to pick with the Church.

I remember reading the first novel of that series, Northern Lights, and finding it -- honestly, a little infantile. I was 11 years old at the time. Admittedly, I had finished The Lord of the Rings about two years before this, so my reading tastes were perhaps a little eclectic (read: snobby) for a child. At any rate, I was sufficiently intrigued to read the sequel, The Subtle Knife, which I found far more satisfying, but which was still pretty safe to describe as a very long, very meaty children's book. And then the third book came along, The Golden Compass. It contained concepts so far above my little head that I had to read it four times in succession to even begin to grasp the full magnitude of it. In hindsight there were a ridiculous number of sub-plots which made it at times very difficult to follow with any degree of coherency; and Pullman had apparently chosen this book in which to stop dancing around behind the veil of tolerance and blatantly attack monotheistic religion as a whole. That isn't to say that I wouldn't happily hand that book to a child and say "Have at it", but I might doubt how much of it they would really understand. 

That phenomenon, incidentally, is basically embodied by The Simpsons. It's probably a large part of why that show been so successful for so long.

Possibly I'm the only 20-year-old who still snickers at the log.

If I go back now and watch episodes I saw for the first time as a child, I can still distinctly remember finding it hilarious and entertaining and generally brilliant, but I realize now that most of the references and a good portion of the jokes went straight over my head. Nonetheless, The Simpsons is definitely what I would call a children's show which is also accessible to adults.

Doctor Who is not. Or at least, the new series isn't. Right from Rose, it struck me as -- well, a teen's show. My 16-year-old self is still filled with glee at the mere prospect of a 12-hour marathon of soft sci fi blended with a lot of social drama and thinly veiled sexual tension between attractive people. But, and this is where I can see Classic Who fans getting tripped up, the classic show wasn't like that. It's essentially the same concept, but aimed at completely different audiences. And of course it should be; the audience of 2011 is a very different one to the people parked in front of the TV in 1963. If anything, we're simply more accepting of ambiguity in target audiences now than we were back in the day -- children's television is still very much children's television (look at Dora the Explorer: I defy any mentally sound adult to sit through it and claim to have enjoyed the experience). But we're not exactly thrown off by the idea of a show that both the little 'uns and the high school kids can watch together. Different things appeal to us now; we expect different things from the shows we watch. 

And that interests me again, because really, Classic Who is what should be appealing to us -- aren't we constantly being told that these modern audiences want an anti-hero? Someone arrogant, cynical and a little bit bitchy, but clever enough to back it up. Artemis Fowl, Tony Stark, Hannibal Lecter...Someone more like, oh, I don't know, the first incarnation of the Doctor? Instead we have Nine, Ten and Eleven, all irrevocably driven to help the underdog, all classically heroic, all frightfully boring by modern standards. And I can't help but wonder if perhaps that's exactly what's so lovable about Doctor Who: it reminds us -- first as children, and now as a wider audience -- what there is to like about something that's unfashionable. The zeitgeist may lean in favour of the anti-hero, but it seems there's still something to that old concept of cheering on someone who is kind and brave and fighting for what anyone with a moral compass would think of as 'right'. It may be old hat, but put it in a bow tie and make it considerably younger and more attractive, and you might have something.

Because no one ever notices when nice people say nice things.

This could've been a post about Donald Trump being an old rich white homophobe, which is BRAND NEW INFORMATION, but instead I decided to focus on something a little more worthwhile:

Ian Somerhalder, unfairly gorgeous man of Vampire Diaries fame, is pretty upset about the culling of 100 sled dogs in British Columbia. And when I say 'culling', I mean a guy running a dogsled tour company decided business was too slow to warrant the huge amount of dogs he had, so instead of rehoming them or dropping them off at a shelter, he proceeded to shoot/cut the throats of over 100 healthy, tethered dogs. Guess who cared enough to use their status as a well-known member of the community to gather support and raise awareness of the issue? Ian Somerhalder, that's who.

Look at this fucking beautiful human being.

I fucking love this guy. Honestly, his Twitter is just a big ol' ball of heartwarming and caring and all sorts of underrated non-edgy-and-pretentious qualities. There are few things I love more than people who are both aware of the world around them and selfless enough to want to give even a little bit of their time to try to help in any way they can. In the immortal words of Rose Tyler: "You don't just give up. You don't just let things happen. You make a stand. You say no. You have the guts to do what's right when everyone else just runs away."

And then I came across this:

For the record, the Christchurch earthquake is officially the worst natural disaster I've ever seen hit my little country, and the worldwide outpouring of mere acknowledgement, let alone support, has been amazing. The fact that this clearly awesome guy was doing his bit to raise awareness, for us and for Libya, is basically +100 excellence as far as I'm concerned.

This is an Oscars post.

Alright, the Oscars don't appear to be anywhere on free to air TV in New Zealand, so I've been resorting to various live streams - which, let me tell you, have been of fairly deplorable quality (thank you, New Zealand internet). As such, I only managed to actually witness bits and pieces, although they seem to have been the most important bits and pieces.

On the hosts:



Anyone else have some sneaking suspicions that James Franco was high as a kite? I've got to admit, I miss Ricky Gervais. This was downright boring in comparison.

On Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross taking away the Oscar for Best Original Score:



Nine Inch Nails are amazing, Trent Reznor is amazing even when he looks like a thumb, I haven't seen The Social Network because I am a bad fan, etc etc.

On Christian Bale winning Best Supporting Actor:



I've got to admit, after my initial distaste following that incident (it's fucking distracting...), I settled on a general feeling of affection for good trolling when it comes to Señor Bale. I haven't seen The Fighter but I intend to, and honestly, it was just cute at the end of his speech when he got all choked up about his wife again. /is a romantic at heart

On Colleen Atwood winning for Best Costume Design:

I love her and I could not care less what anyone says about Alice In Wonderland. I thought it was fine. Not amazing, not mind-shatteringly awful, it was fine. People are such drama queens about that shit.

On Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law:

They warm the cockles of my heart, whatever that means. I'm still sold on this Sherlock thing.

On Florence Welch:

Ethereal goddess, musical queen, wasted on this ceremony, etc.

On Tom Hooper winning Best Director:

Laughing at these bitches who seem to think this was unexpected. The King's Speech is a beautifully directed film.

On Natalie Portman winning Best Actress:

Whatever, we all saw it coming, I just don't get it. She was alright, but seriously, best actress? Slim pickings this year, huh?

On Colin Firth winning Best Actor:

King Firth deserves this and every other award we can invent for excellence in a human being, the end.

On The King's Speech winning Best Picture:

Honestly, I wasn't sure the Academy was going to choose the correct candidate for this one, but in the end they got it right. I would've been happy with this or True Grit, so...

On True Grit

I went to see True Grit on a whim, purely because my flatmates were going and happened to ask if I'd like to go along. I figured it's been acknowledged by the Academy this year - I might as well check it out, even if it looked like something I would find deathly boring. Westerns? Not exactly my thing. However, by now I trust the Coens enough to give them the benefit of the doubt despite trepidations about genre.

This turned out to be a good decision on my part; I had a vague feeling that whatever happened, I would probably enjoy the ride, and I was right. For all that Westerns are not my thing, this film certainly was, and for a couple of hours it showed me exactly what fans of the genre see in it.

Visually the film was quite breathtaking. Roger Deakins' cinematography was nothing short of beautiful, and this is one of its main strengths. True Grit boasts a generous helping of the usual black humor and razor-sharp wit I've come to expect from the Coen brothers, but with characters like Mattie Ross and Rooster Cogburn, it doesn't for a moment feel forced or contrived. The cast delivered brilliant performances, especially Jeff Bridges (and I am not a particular fan of his, but this was truly excellent work), and Hailee Steinfeld, who more than lived up to the stellar cast.

My only issue with this film is the fact that the final sequence felt - well, flat. I don't know what happened. It was charging forward so fearlessly, and suddenly, just as it drew to a close, it stumbled. In a jarring case of mood whiplash, it suddenly lost momentum and...well, I left the cinema feeling slightly confused. What exactly was the point of that epilogue-type deal? I may never understand. However, don't let that put you off seeing it - do see it.
In fact I demand that you see it.
Go on.

On post-rock and days in limbo.

I am in that place between ventures which is simultaneously relaxed and uncomfortable - or maybe uncomfortable because of all the relaxation - there always seems to be something amiss when you're not active. It's a little like being the only person who doesn't have a worried look on their face; it means you've probably missed something, and you're going to feel very silly when the penny drops.

At any rate, I've been passing the unseasonably rain-drenched days tucked away in my room, obsessively building a collection of post-rock, a genre I have basically ignored up until now. On a not-so-special night last week, I realized I had been listening to Explosions In The Sky for three hours straight. I have not looked back and it has been excellent.

Liking early Regina Spektor and needing a whole lot more Doctor Who in my life.

I had somehow managed to forget how much I love Regina Spektor's earlier, rougher, freer songs.

Thirty-two is still a goddamn number
Thirty-two still counts

Brilliant. Alright, indie and pretentious, but brilliant nonetheless.

Over the last few days I have, with the mystical powers of Youtube and the internet in general, been giving myself a crash course on the most recent episodes of Doctor Who. For years I had allowed the painfully cheesy low-budget effects and patently ridiculous plots put me off what is actually a very enjoyable show, as it turns out.

Tardy to the party? Well, slightly. But I am making a heartfelt attempt to make up for that! I'm fascinated by its ability to override my rationality and convince me that even though it's blatantly trying to turn "I wear a ____ now. ____s are cool." into a much-loved, oft-quoted catchphrase, I still buy it. I'm sitting there with one half of my brain facepalming and telling me, "That is so fucking lame," and the other half squeeing and shrieking like a deranged fangirl, "Bowties are cool!" Oddly confusing, but I applaud Matt Smith for making it work, because really.

On the importance of history

Those who have been blessed with the opportunity to view the comedic brilliance that is Mean Girls may have thought the main character's name - Cady - was a strange choice for the lead role in a mainstream American film.

In fact it is in keeping with the film's theme of female empowerment; it shares its unusual spelling with the birth surname of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, an 18th-century pioneer in the American women's rights movement.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton

Before she began her activism in the name of gender equality, Elizabeth Cady Stanton was also an abolitionist. She attended the International Anti-Slavery Convention in 1840, where she and every other female present were required to sit in a roped-off section where the men in attendance would not have to look at them. This incident was partly responsible for pushing her politically active spirit towards the issue of women's rights.

The Anti-Slavery Convention of 1840

Also present at the convention, and one of the only women to be included in the painting of the event, was one Baroness Byron. The name should sound familiar; she was the long-suffering wife of the poet Lord Byron, and mother of Ada, Countess Lovelace -- a brilliant and highly educated mathematician who is now regarded as the world's first computer programmer.

Annabella Byron, 1812

And that is how Mean Girls and Lord Byron conspired to make me consider the invention of the world's first analytical engine.

On The King's Speech

This is the only coherent reaction I can give.

Colin Firth? Give that man an Oscar, so help me God.
Geoffrey Rush and Helena Bonham Carter were both stunning, flawless and generally perfect in every way for this film. The film itself looked fantastic - the costuming was understated and brilliant, the sets and locations elegant and beautiful - but more than that, it felt amazing. I literally had tears in my eyes not fifteen minutes in, due mainly to King Firth's mind-blowing excellence. He exuded this man's anxiety and shame, and maybe I can relate to that a little more personally than some, but it was a stunning performance nonetheless. He made a guy's stammer interesting.

I can't even imagine how immense my rage is going to be if an Oscar is not forthcoming.

Haven't seen it? Do yourself and the movie industry a favour by seeing this intelligent piece of art at a cinema and letting your money do the talking for you, because your money will be saying "The general public wants more well-written and beautifully acted films." Don't let the coins in your pocket stay silent! Cast your vote! Raise your voice! We want YOU!

Pro-Ana?

"I'm not beautiful, my hair is ruined and I know I will never have long hair again. I've lost several teeth. My skin is dry. My breasts have fallen. No young girl wants to look like a skeleton. ... You couldn't believe anyone would want to look like that. I don't think there's any question about it." - Isabelle Caro on how nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

"Thinness leads to death and it is anything but beautiful. You start out with this feeling as if you can master everything, that you are in total control, and then little by little you fall into this hellish spiral, a spiral of death."

Jesus God, the photos of this woman break my heart. There is at best boundless stupidity and ignorance, and at worst mental illness or pure mean-spiritedness, fueling any comments that this could possibly be a positive thing. 
She died at 28 years of age. There is nothing beautiful about it.

As Daddy said, life is 95 percent anticipation.

This looks gorgeous. I haven't read the book, largely because animal abuse/anything that references animal abuse automatically turns me into a sobbing shivering wreck, but I might have to brave this film if only to watch Hans Landa eclipse Elle Woods and Edward Cullen. I'm indifferent to Reese Witherspoon and Robert Pattinson, but I can't wait to see Christoph Waltz be charismatic and generally excellent again. In other words - only here to bask in Oscar-winning brilliance.

Between two evils, I always pick the one I never tried before.

Upon reviewing Christopher Nolan's 'Batman Begins', I believe I could overcome my natural aversion to comics in order to further immerse myself in this world. Of course I'd obviously prefer an animated series, and I do have a vague urge to track down a copy of 'Batman Beyond' somehow, but there's a first time for everything. I'm particularly fond of the villains; I'm almost convinced that the only reason Batman appeals to me at all is because of the recent shift toward the anti-hero, a role which Batman adapts to with minimum fuss.

At any rate, I think there's an unfair tendency to rag on the supervillainesses more than their male counterparts - oh, sure, The Joker, The Riddler, Scarecrow, Two Face, they're all fine, they're more or less substantial enemies, worthy of the (strangely square-jawed) Batman's attention, but Poison Ivy? Harmless, a tease. Catwoman? Isn't she practically Batman's girlfriend? Harley Quinn is passable based purely on excessive amounts of badassery, but she's still just the Joker's sidekick (and punching bag). I find it largely unjustified and distasteful.

Dr Pamela Isley is an eco-terrorist with a penchant for plant-based toxins and mind controlling pheromones, plus she has an immunity to all natural toxins and diseases. I'm sorry, but that is fundamentally pretty cool. On top of that, at least one of her storylines involved attempting to bring Gotham down via huge amounts of superpowered marijuana. So basically, you could think of Poison Ivy as the ultimate dealer.

Dr Harleen Quinzel (are you noticing a trend here? Higher education = villainy? Interesting) is a trained psychoanalyst and a talented gymnast with a whole lot of crazy packed in there to boot. Although she's possibly one of the worst role models for young women imaginable, they're both so batshit insane that no one could mistake her romance with the Joker for a 'healthy' relationship. Harley eventually gains immunity to toxins from her partner in crime, Poison Ivy.

Selina Kyle is the original feline fatale, a whip-wielding jewellery thief with a talent for breaking and entering. Catwoman has gone on to become one of Batman's most enduring love interests, and in recent times has been portrayed as more of an anti-hero than a supervillain. She has always been slightly different from other supervillains in the sense that she is not a killer. This isn't to say she doesn't have claws; she does, literally, razor-sharp retractable claws, along with an assortment of bullwhips and cat-o'-nine-tails, in addition to which she is an extremely skilled hand-to-hand combatant and a gymnast.

It's not that I don't think these characters have flaws, I just don't see why they're so easily dismissed in comparison to the male villains. I'm pretty sure they would turn out just as brilliantly as the already iconic portrayal of the Joker by Heath Ledger if Nolan would give them the chance.


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