As school is out for the summer, I have the luxury of sitting in bed with my laptop watching bad movies on TV. The movie today is The Poseidon Adventure, starring Gene Hackman, Ernest Borgnine, Stella Stevens, Pamela Sue Martin and some other folks whose names I’m not going to remember until they get to the credits. In this disaster movie, several plucky survivors of a capsized oceanliner try to make it to the engine room from which they hope to be rescued.
Growing up, this was one of the movies my older sister and I watched over and over again every time it came on the 4:30 movie (anybody remember that?), God only knows why. When I look at it now, the thing that strikes me most is the dichotomy between male and female roles in the story. The men are uniquely brave–they may argue about the way to proceed, but none of them shrink back from trying to lead the not-so-merry band toward safety. Even nebishy Red Buttons, like the Cowardly Lion, discovers his courage when he needs it.
On the other hand, the women shriek and scream and panic at every opportunity. The one woman who performs a brave act–a zaftig Shelley Winters–gets to die for saving Gene Hackman from a watery death. And you know tough-talking, former prostitute Stella Stevens isn’t making it out of there alive, though her death makes the least sense of any of them. She just oops! falls for no good reason. The only adult female to make it through the movie is a whiny, whimpy pain in the butt who makes you want to choke her every ten minutes. Talk about too stupid to live.
Granted, this movie was made in 1972, at about the same time Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman was turning into a feminist national anthem. Today we’ve got all sorts of kick-butt heroines–ladies who can tackle the latest terrorist or things that go bump in the night. I am really enjoying this trend, even though I have always appreciated the emotional strength and resilience of female charaters more so than the physical. The tendency sometimes with kick-butt heroines is to temper their physical strength by making them angsty to make them seem more “feminine.” Like Sydney Bristow weeping every other minute and ruining an otherwise perfecty good show. Not necessary folks. Women are strong in every way, and there’s nothing wrong with showing it.
Which leaves me with just one more question: is there a more cringe-inducing thing on the planet than a close-up of Ernest Borgnine’s dirty face?
Hilarious:)
Why thank you, Dee. You are so wise. (The fact that you have the same nickname I do has nothing to do with it.)