Getting all Girly on You

So I'm pretty excited about Diablo Cody's new flick.  Firstly, I loved Juno.  It was a little indie-by-numbers, but it was refreshing to see a female lead with the strength to express her individuality.  And Ellen Page was magical: that girl can dead-pan like nobody's business!

What?

Also, I think Diablo Cody is a rather interesting woman.  She's been a BUST covergirl (love!) and still has the ovaries to call herself a feminist, so when the sites started buzzing with talk of her upcoming 'comedy horror film', I was intrugued.  Was it going to be feminist?  Was it going to go where socially responsible Buffy won't allow herself?  I could already taste the buttered popcorn...


But "Jennifer's Body" never got a theatrical release in Australia.  You'll be relieved to know I made a big batch of popcorn anyway (mmm... popcorn), but why?  What was wrong with it?  I mean, if you were on Family Feud and asked to list the features that would make a successful teen movie, you could do worse than suggesting:

1.  Cheerleaders?  Check.

A whole bunch of emo gore?  Check.

Some almost nudity?  Check.

And a splash of lesbianism?  Why not!

Oh yeah.  And Hollywood's Finest:

I wish! Wrong Oscar.  I mean this:

Yet the film was commercially disappointing.  Box-office analyst Jeff Bock blames the the R-rating and a lack of marketing, but I think it runs deeper than that.  I mean, most horror audiences would have been relatively comfortable with the plot: Unrepentant Lead Seduces and Destroys Vulnerable School Kids until the Hero puts a Stop to it.  Gasp!  Nothing unusual here (see: every horror film ever made).  I think the problem was that the lead was female.  And the hero was female.

And there's nothing scary about that!

Sadly, audiences will happily sit back and snack on popcorn while watching torture-porn ("Saw", "The Human Caterpillar", "Hostel"); indeed these films have become massively successful.  But a sexy cheerleader who butchers boys and jokes that "my dick is bigger than his" has people shifting uncomfortably in their seats.  And when the hero rushes in to save the handsome boy in distress - wearing a completely hilarious and deeply awesome princess dress, no less:

...stomachs were turned.   Now I'm not saying it was the greatest film on earth.  I think Diablo had some interesting ideas and two hypnotically beautiful actresses.  But after she created some lovely colour-saturated vingettes (like the one above) and some snappy one-liners ("How are you going to get alcohol?"  "I'm just going to play Hello Titty with the bartender"), she didn't quite know what to do with herself.  She claims to have aimed the film at women, but with the foxy Megan pouting and pouring herself all over the screen, it really seemed like more of a dick flick.  And teaming up with "Girlfight" director Karyn Kusma suggested she intended to make a kickass flick empowering to women, but many feminists just weren't feeling it.  Indeed, Cody, claims she wasn't really feeling it herself: "This was a challenge from start to finish because it was really hard to establish the tone".

Personally, I felt that there was so much girl-on-girl crime, casual sexism and normative 'female victim' tropes it seemed like I had wandered into the wrong film.  This was just a standard-issue horrror movie, and - wait a second - I don't like horror movies!  Maybe I should stick with scriptwriters I can trust to write strong female leads, like Joss Whedon and Alan Ball (who prove you don't need boobs to be a feminist).  Speaking of "True Blood", notice any similarities?

Yeah.  Li'l bit!

But Diablo ain't done yet.  There were some great things about her second flick (like this quote: "PMS isn't real!  It was invented by the boy-run media to make us seem like we're crazy!"), and given a little more structure she may yet come good.  And when I saw the movie poster, I was back on the Cody Wagon all over again.

Too cute!  Too reminiscent of my groaning pre-teen bookshelf!  And apparently it's about a 30-something returning to her home town (cue pealing bell arppegios).  I'm in.  And I'm inspired to revisit the books of my childhood.  Far from feminist, the Wakefield twins dominated my tween imagination and as such I will not hear a bad word about them!  I loved them both immoderately and never could choose which twin I was most like...  It's like Elizabeth and Jessica are both in me still, warring for supremacy on a daily basis.  They are the twinned self, the split psyche, and I'm pretty sure that was what Francine Pascal was aiming for, and what made her series so wildly successful.

 That and the red Spyder Fiat they drove.

Square One

As I'm recently single for the first time in 10 years, I'm Experimenting With My Look.  And I'm not too proud to say that I have no idea what I'm doing.

Absolutely no clue!  Was there a secret afternoon class I missed on being a 'girl'?  Maybe putting 'girl' in inverted commas is actually part of my problem.   It's like holding my femininity at arm's length... with tongs, gloves and a pegged nose.  GIRL.  I just don't know how to be a girl.  Why do all the other females seem to know what to do with a hairdryer, and how to walk in heels?  And when did "swiping a line of blue" become "eye primer, three types of eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara"?  I feel like I missed a masterclass somehow and am sitting the test with no idea, 10 minutes left on the clock and nothing but a broken crayon.  And maybe I ate the crayon.

So my search begins.  How does one rejoin the meat market in her 30s?  First I have to say goodbye to the past.  And I think I have done a passable job of that.  I don't know what I want yet, but I know what I don't want.  And I don't know who I am yet, but I know how to cum!  I have, at least, worked through the Elizabeth Kuebler-Ross model of grief, and am a pheonix rising.  Her 1969 study, "On Death and Dying" outlined the 5 stages of emotional pain.  I think she nailed it, and I can almost see the bonfire of intelligence behind those unassuming cat's-eye glasses.

But I don't want things to become maudlin here.  This is a blog of rebirth!  So to illustrate the 5 stages, allow me to give you a more palatable example.  Say you were asked to perform at the Superbowl.  Just say.  And say you were hot veteran of the stage, just aching for a comeback, and then this happened:

Why, you would be slapping mad!  You would be flushed-faced furious!  You would be just about ready to teach that cocky boy a thing or two about how to treat a woman and where to touch you just there that's right harder and... what?

Sorry.

Anyway, when the inevitable puritanical backlash hits, you may be going through these five stages:

1.  Denial - But I was wearing a pastie!

(Not to be confused with a pasty)

2.  Anger - fuck off I am a JACKSON and this white boy's just cutting my brother's grass!

3.  Bargaining - You can have my reputation if I can keep my three grammy nominations!

4.  Depression - All that and none of my singles reach the top 40?

5.  Acceptance - I'm doing alright. At least I'm still on Oprah.

(And that's never going to negatively affect my career)

See how Elizabeth nailed it?  Those are the same 5 stages we all go though!  Clever creature.  So departing from this model of understanding wretchedness, I want to talk about rejuvenation.  I want to talk about how I will get my 31 year-old self back on the dance-floor and back in play!  My only rudders will be youtube makeup tutorials...

...alcohol...

....and stuff my friends tell me.

Stay tuned for how that works out!  Next time: what happens when I cut my own fringe...

Of Dotage

So I work in a nursing home.  I like my job and I love my residents, so please believe when I tell you I write this not to complain but because it's simply true: nursing homes are to fashion what black wholes are to the universe.  Full as they undoubtedly are of a splendid cross-section of society, and vivid as the people in question may be, if fashion is matter then nursing homes contain the blackest anti-matter known to humankind.  And like black holes, nursing homes embody the inevitable truth into which we are all inexorably being pulled.

Seriously, long life is not all it's cracked up to be.  We may wish it for our beloveds, especially when candles are involved:

...and pray in our darkest moments for deliverance - in whatever shape that may take - from the unknown and the unknowable.  But just quietly, extreme old age is another kettle of fish.  Dear friend: may you slip into oblivion somewhere before panic and confusion, but somewhere after you get to wear trakkie daks all day and refuse to eat anything except hand fed desserts and fun-sized kit-kats.

Like my sweetheart clients.

Not that the nurses are any better!  Even if in, private life, they are sartorially gifted, there's very little opportunity to express this on the wards.  Firstly, any nurse worth her salt wants some thick-soled shoes.  And tailored trousers are for pen-pushers...  What any decent health professional needs are some wide, comfy, stain-resistant, polyester pants.  Unfortunately most of those pants answer to the title 'slacks' and have a perma-crease ironed down the middle.  Secondly, time is, like, a pretty big deal?  So a patient doesn't get, like, a triple does of Endone in an hour and go rampaging through Saks like Winona Ryder?

Haha, I love Wino forever but that girl was seriously interrupted by her immoderate consumption of barbiturates...  So, timing is, I'm sure she would agree, everything.  Hence nurses favouring the perennially awful 'watch-brooch'.  For some reason all modern fobs are rubberised, functional and day-glo, and dangle from our (practical) shirts like loveless tamagotchis.  So I simply cannot bring myself to call them fobs.  To paraphrase Mick from Crocodile Dundee, "That's not a fob!  This, is a fob":

Sigh!  Anne of Green Gables!   I think an entry dedicated to her fashion is just around the corner... and maybe Winona in Heathers while we're on the topic:

But I digress.  The point is: gasp, the sexy nurse myth is totally a porn thing!  It makes for cute Halloween outfits (and attractive blog pics):

...but it bears no resemblance to my reality.  So surrounded as I am all day by Tena stay-ups, practical singlets and flannelettes of questionable origin, you can imagine how delighted I was to discover this stylish blog.  Now, I'm not suggesting that these elegant women are of a one with my darling dementia-sufferers, gosh no.  I'm simply noting that as long as you have a sense of self, you can have a sense of style.  These women are an inspiration and I hope to one day hold my head up high amongst their ranks.

Somehow it got around to shoes again

Well there I was, searching for images to illustrate the visions I had for a blogpost on Librarian Chic, and three Duke Ellingtons and a cheeky scotch later, I stumbled upon this lovely blog!  The woman (sexist!) behind it remains rather elusive, but I imagine her to possess infinite style and not a mere modicum of taste. Mostly because I love and agree with her shorthand assessment of what constitutes Librarian Chic...

Firstly, cat eye glasses.  Now I prefer the rounded 80s-meets-40s look:

But I've been known to succumb to a sharper 50s look if the situation demands it:

...and I couldn't possibly quarrel with her next selection of brogue heels, seeing as how they constitute a near exclusive hold over my shoe collection:

Duffle coat, cooured ribbed tights, pincurls... do you ever get the feeling you are really predictable?  Oh, just me then?  Tee hee, fine.  At least I have these shoes!

But upon reflection, do you know what I secretly wish for?  THESE:

I do try to at least cultivate virtuous thoughts about worthy shoes.  I'm not immune to the charms of the SATC-set, and comprehend the elegance and glamour of a trophy stilleto...

...but what I really want is (looking at the shoes!  looking at the shoes!) this:

Homy ped is HAWT!!  I can't wait 'til nana-status so I can stomp around in thick-soled, comfort-built, made-to-last, shit-starters like all the cool grans on my block.  Spark up the lamingtons and hide your meds... the nana's are coming to town!!

Phoenix Writing

My, I'm tardy!  How I've neglected you!  I should apologise, but my friend Mark told me I need to stop apologising for things.  And he is right. I am too apologetic (this is where I'd usually say sorry for that).  I think it's common to many women who, as girls, received positive feedback for being 'nice', 'polite' or 'easy to get along with'.  Glowing with the relieved approval of teachers and parents ('thank heavans this girl isn't any trouble'), and bursting with joy at receiving each gaudily triumphant birthday invitation, I learnt early that nice girls finish first.     Yes I can cannot come to your party!

I become addicted to approval.  Now, at 31, I'm trying to break the habit of a lifetime.

So, to honour this decision, I will dedicate this entry to all the women who have recognised something they didn't like in themselves... and changed.  This is not going to turn into a motivational poster, I promise!  That kind of self-lacerating self-improvement (or self-hating self-love) belongs to a darker part of the soul than many care to acknowledge.  I LOVE a makeover, but I don't believe beauty is an ends in itself.  For example, by taking a bright, happy young girl with intellectual curiosity, imagination, and a kick-ass best friend:

...and gussying her up to resemble your standard issue glamazon:

...you'd be forgiven for  concluding that the next stage of the project should be somewhat more extreme:

Yes!  I'm aware that I'm being a little overly.  Am I suggesting that hair-straighteners and a modicum of eyebrow grooming is similar to a lobotomy?  Or that the fresh-faced Anne Hathaway of Disney vintage is similar to a vapid sexbot programmed to ape the behaviour of the butchered woman she resembles like some sort of zombie Martha Stewart?  No.  

Well maybe a little.  

Because these sorts of makeovers have a sort of brutal superficiality, a kind of self-erasure.  What excites me is seeing the woman within more profoundly expressed without.  So without further preamble, here is today's LOOK:

I just saw "Batman Returns" last night, and I loved it!  And god Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman is fantastically dressed.  I wasn't expecting such an awesome look at all.  After missing it as a kid, and later becoming a huge fan of Chistopher Nolan's contributions to the series, I developed a groundless mistrust of the earlier films.  Even the Tim Burton stamp wasn't enough to shift my prejudice after his sausage-fingered attempts at "Planet of the Apes" and "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory".  Perhaps the heart of my bigotry was my traumatic adolescent experience of "Batman and Robin".  Perhaps it was a blind loyalty to the searing fearlessness of the Chistopher Nolan Bat-verse.  But yesterday, I allowed my enthusiasm for Christian Bale's Batman to quell the nausea created by Christopher O'Donnel's Robin.  Chris + Chris - Chris = well, I don't know really, but a kind of Batman amnesty that meant I let my flatmates talk me into watching what I feared would be a bat-astrohpe.  

How wrong I was!  Michell Pfeiffer's Catwoman was a revelation, and, interestingly, some very big lace-up, spike-heeled, patent-leather boots to fill for the afore-mentioned Anne Hathaway, who is tipped to play Catwoman in the latest Batman flick, "Dark Knight Rising".  

Although I am confident the lusciously intelligent Hathaway will make this character her own, what I loved most about Pfieffer's Catwoman was her DIY 'tude.  Selina Kyle (aka Catwoman) sewed her outfit by hand (at times onto her very body), hacking up what appeared to be a private stash of BDSM latex she had hidden amongst the plaid.  As you do.  Every girl should have what my friend Ini calls an 'emergency sex outfit' at the back of her wardrobe!  

But that's a topic for another entry.  The point her is that after trashing her bric-a-brac and spray painting her candy pink walls, she sat down at her Bellvedere and remade herself.

That is the kind of superpower I want!  The skills, vision and determination to become the woman I feel myself to be, somewhere, inside (if I could just stop apologising).  

And that's another reason I love fashion.  You can dress like the person you feel yourself to be until that person is you.  Whoever that may be.

Bikini Kill

How awesome is the image from Jamie McCarthy?  The simplicity of her lines, her Roy Lichtenstein elegance, and oh, yeah.  It's my poster girl Emma Stone!  Reading is even sexier!

Which got me to thinking... are seductively sensible swimsuits finally making a comeback?  I was walking through the hipster section of my neighbourhood the other day... it's actually right next to the business district (we don't have a lot neighbourhood in Newcastle).  Anyway, I noticed that Carla's swimsuit shop sported fetching vintage looks in both her windows, something akin to this:

Thanks Amy at wolfwhistle.org

...with slightly less ruffles.  It prompted me to wonder: are one-pieces making a comeback?  Onesies and jumpsuits have been all over everywhere for a while now, but maybe the tyrannous reign of bikinis has also finally ended?  BIKINI KILL!!

Thanks lastfm.com

Finally we can, in good fashion conscience, dress to actually swim in waves rather than loll about on the sand like lame teenagers from some sort of 1970s hell.  "Puberty Blues", I'm looking at you:

Thanks 82liddiard

As someone who's grown up in a coastal town with a strong beach culture, I speak with authority when I say that NO BIKINI EVER in the history of humankind has successfully withstood a longish swim in the ocean.  Waves and triangles-secured-by-string do not mix!  At least not with a PG rating.  What kind of sex-addled pervert thought bikinis would help swimming anyway?  I get so much nip slip it's nuts.  After about 5 decent waves I have the choice of either focusing the majority of my swim time on securing the modesty of my outfit, or simply taking the whole thing off and call it a - ahem - wash.

I recently found a solution in the form of a sort of 'bikini-onesie' I bought in Marrickville:

It still shows a bunch of skin and makes my little a-cups look like, well squashed a-cups but in a good way I think.  The illusion of boobs.  Most importantly, the halter neck means i can dive under wave after wave and forget everything except the rush of saltwater, the drumbeat of the hot Summer sun and the sweet freedom of not thinking about what I look like.

Thanks pinterest.com

 This Summer, wear more and worry less!