Have we met? | John Wick Review

Thanks to Cineworld Unlimited, last night I was afforded a viewing of Keanu Reeves’ new film, John Wick, a week before the box office opens. The movie poster - Reeves with smoking guns in both hands, and a black suit reminiscent of his matrix days - was promising. But I hadn’t seen any sign of this film in movie theatres yet; no preview, no trailer, no trace. I didn’t know what to expect. And yet somehow, this film was not what I expected. 

The first twenty minutes were extremely calm; even sombre. We meet John Wick, a normal guy, who has just lost his wife to a mystery illness. Anyone with a soft-centred heart is roped in when a tiny puppy, a gift from Wick’s late wife, arrives on his doorstep. We’re reminded of PS I Love You. We see a grieving man getting used to Daisy, a puppy he wasn’t expecting, but probably needed. We’re attached. To them both. 

So heart strings are sufficiently pulled. But don’t be fooled - the atmosphere quickly changes. In a gas-station exchange, we meet Josef (played by Alfie Allen with an impressive russian accent), and the tension in the film is revealed. What is that tension? Wick’s car. Anti-climax? I thought so. At this point I can’t tell who the target audience is - the puppy-loving softie or the car-crazed lad. Give it a few scenes, and we find out exactly what is going on here. 

Brace yourselves, you’re not only about to hear a (very mild) spoiler, but you’re likely going to be a little disturbed. We’re in Wick’s apartment in the middle of the night. Daisy is awake. Wick pulls himself out of bed to let his new puppy out. But, of course, as he trudges down the stairs, he discovers that three Assassin’s Creed-style cloaked figures are waiting for him in his living room. No doubt, a flawlessly choreographed fight scene follows, and Wick is floored. Daisy is crying. A figure is unhooded. It’s Josef, here to claim Wick’s car. Dramatic, right? But what follows is one of the most unnecessary sources of revenge film has ever seen. Josef, tired of the puppy’s yelping and presumably devoid of any human sentiment, utters the words “Shut that dog up”. I don’t need to share gorey details for you to understand what’s happened here. Wick wakes up an indefinite amount of time later, shares a traumatic scene with Daisy - now heart-breakingly lifeless - and finds that his car is gone too. In true Hollywood style, Wick’s fuse is lit, and he spends the rest of his screen time on a revenge-fuelled, murderous rampage in search of Josef.

I’ll admit it, I’m a dog lover - I would die for my black labs, and that’s probably why I felt like this scene was so unnecessary. But animal cruelty aside, I still have a problem with this film. 

Let’s break it down to its basics. 

1. A guy who wants revenge 
2. Fast cars 
3. The Russian Mob 
4. Guns 
5. Men 
6. Bourbon 

It’s everything we’ve seen before, crammed into one film. Don’t get me wrong, it will entertain, but in every scene you’ll find yourself thinking, “Hey, that’s just like (any other fast-car mafia movie)”. The cars are fast, Wick is furious, I am experiencing déjà vu. 

What’s worse is that this movie is crammed full of men. Sure, I sound like a broken record, but it’s absolutely true. There is one woman of note in the entire film, and she is cast as a modern femme fatale - she’s a hot, heeled, hired assassin. The character is an unbearable cliché. If you grasp at straws, there are two other females in the movie… one - Wick’s wife - dies before the film starts, and the other - Daisy - is introduced just to be killed off. So we’re looking at a film where we’re resorting to female dogs to find the women. 

Like I said, this film will keep you entertained for a couple of hours. It’s fast, it’s familiar, and it’s featuring Reeves. But it’s nothing new, it’s textbook, and it’s shamefully male-orientated. All I can really conclude is that this is a man’s movie, and I'm no man. 

The Formidable French | #4

There's no way that any list of stunning French people could be compiled without including the original sex kitten, notre BB. So here she is, in all her glory.

Brigitte Bardot was born in Paris in 1934, and quickly rose to fame thanks to her striking features. She became one of the world's first "sex-kittens": women whose beauty is based in their teenage image. She played a lot of controversial roles, including a role in And God Created Woman - which was heralded by feminists. In fact, she's stirred quite a storm in feminist theory, and was the subject of Simone de Beauvoir's essay The Lolita Syndrome, which discusses teenage girls as sexual objects, and the culture of abuse. 

Aside from the Lolita aesthetic, she brought that gorgeous deliberately-messy style to the world: a mix between wind-swept and perfectly styled hair which we all strive for.
Bardot knew that her capitol was her body, and her roles exploited it. Jean Luc Godard's cast her in Le Mépris as a critique of exactly this - the star body. The problem, though, with depending on your youthful beauty for your career is that, of course, it's finite. As Bardot's looks began to fade, she turned her hand to animal rights activism, and all but disappeared from the silver screen.

The Heel Hindrance | The Media's Female Detective

The strong female detective: a feminist liberation, right? Hold that thought. Who's the first female police officer, detective, copper that comes to your mind? The classic Frances McDormund in Fargo? One of the Criminal Minds chicks, maybe, Prentiss? Recently, I started watching the Danish hit-series The Killing, another crime drama with a female detective as the lead. First few episodes, I'm hooked. But then I notice it. The real killer that haunts every show, every film with a female officer - the high heel.

There's nothing wrong with a lady loving her heels. Stiletto, boot, wedge or little blacks, they brighten our wardrobes and make us feel like we can conquer the world. But when I see an unstoppable ladies run into a crime scene or chase a killer, I want to see her being the badass that she is... I don't want to see her struggling to run because she's been stuffed into a heeled boot by a costume designer.  

Our beloved Emily Prentiss sporting a gorgeously unnecessary black boot in pursuit of a criminal 

Case in point: above, our much-loved Prentiss from Criminal Minds crouches behind a car, pistol in hand, focused on her target, and nicely outfitted in some beautiful black heeled boots. Necessary? Doubtful. "But the Criminal Minds ladies are called out without warning - they don't have time to change!" I hear you cry as you tilt your trilby. I find it hard to believe that in a show where there is a lengthy brief on a private jet, frequent mentions of the "go-bag", and scenes in which the team have had time to put on bullet proof vests, there has been no time for the ladies to slip their heels off. I call bullsh**. Criminal Minds isn't the only guilty party. Three episodes into the original Danish version of The Killing, detective Sarah Lund has been on a murder case for at least 12 hours. She's dropped her son off at his Grandmother's, sauntered in and out of the office, and gone back to see her Mum. But when she gets within 10 meters of the perp and starts to chase him, what rears its ugly head?

It's blurry, but it's there. When you see it...

Hidden under those from-the-naughties flared jeans are a pair of heeled boots bathed in from-the-naughties female objectification. Clearly this phenomenon isn't purebred Hollywood. But it might be where it came to be.
We all know the phrase femme fatale. The "independent", sexy, fierce woman who wears tight fitting dresses and seductive black heels. She was Hollywood's original "strong woman" (although we've come to know that she wasn't that "strong" at all). Hollywood told us she didn't need a man, thought for herself and had everyone under her thumb. And here's where we see the parallel. Hollywood (and apparently the media in general) wants us to think we're seeing a brilliant, well-written female character, because they know that third-wave feminism demands to see one. But instead of taking the time to write brilliant women, they've just hidden the things that made the femme fatale so obviously man-driven under a thin veil of "independence". 
Take Sarah Lund as an example. What they tell us: she's been the chief detective for what seems like a while; she has a sharp mind; she is a single mum; she doesn't need to wear skimpy outfits to be gorgeous. So she must be a well-written female, right? Wrong. What they don't tell us, but show us: her subplot revolves around her being a mother and giving up her job for that role; she's always wearing heels, despite her job requiring sensible shoes; she wants to move departments, but her male boss is having none of it, and stops her by playing the empathy card and listing off the victim's grievances. What's worse is that she's pitted against the macho new guy, who is the epitome of a male detective, making her, what, the epitome of a female detective? 
I'm not the only one this gets to. This kind of criticism really is everywhere. We're sick of it. So why does it keep happening. We've seen it before and we'll see it again, women were brought onto the silver screen as the object of the gaze, and nearly 100 years, 3 feminist movements and an endless battle against it, women still are the object of the gaze. Even if it is hidden under their flares.