The United States, has never taken kindly to the idea of women exhibiting ownership over something that is, by all means, their own. Of course, there is the glaringly obvious example of the increasing scarcity of a woman’s rights over her own body, but there’s more than meets the eye. There’s a reluctance to allow women any autonomy of their own stories, their own lives, even years after their deaths.
The #MeToo Movement: Progress or Illusion?
In 2006, the term “Me Too,” created by Tarana Burke and which would later turn into the equally viral and controversial #MeToo just a little more than ten years in the future, was introduced to the zeitgeist and since its introduction has sparked no shortage of debates surrounding sexual harassment, rape culture, and accountability. After its explosion in 2017, when Alyssa Milano sparked a domino effect with her tweet encouraging those who have “been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet,” it would be easy to say that things have taken a turn for the better; that, while our world isn’t a perfect one, it’s one in which women can ultimately take comfort that one less titan is using his power for evil. Even if New York’s appeal court overturned that titan’s (ahem, Harvey Weinstein) conviction.
The Romanticized Narrative of Overcoming
We are now living in a world where the most empowering thing a woman can do is take the power back (even if she, and this is unfortunately most likely, didn’t have any to begin with), tell her own story on her terms, and now that we’re existing in a “post #MeToo” chamber, you can do that! You really can! Can’t you? Well, it’s indeniable: the idea itself is incredibly romantic.
It’s a story we all know and love. A victim, someone beaten down by society and likely a menacing overlord type of figure, ultimately overcomes what obstacles befall them and reclaims (or just claims) justice, or at least their version of it. The Hunger Games, Miracle, even Good Will Hunting come to mind. Hell, She Said (2022) is a film detailing New York Times reporters Jodi Kantor and Meghan Twohey’s investigation and ultimate exposé on Harvey Weinstein. Brad Pitt, who has faced accusations of abuse by his ex-wife Angelina Jolie as well as his children, helped produce.
The Exploitation of Past Trauma
But even if it were true that a “post #MeToo” society ameliorated all concerns that abuse is still rampant (and let’s face it…), where does that leave the women whose time predated #MeToo, or before it was even slightly socially acceptable to hold one’s abusers accountable? What does that mean for Amy Winehouse and Marilyn Monroe? Women whose trauma has been exploited and capitalized on to make those who didn’t even know them more prosperous, more powerful? Since they’re now “voiceless,” does it mean their lives are free rein for those looking to make a buck?
The lives of the rich and the famous fascinate us, perhaps the latter more. The Kardashians. Andy Cohen’s Housewives. And when the lives of the rich and the famous are enigmatic, even more so. What about the rich, the famous, the enigmatic, and the “tortured”? It’s a lethal combination, both ethically and, in the most dire and horrific cases, in practice. And it draws audiences in.
Sam Taylor-Johnson’s Back to Black (2024), which follows the life of the prolific Amy Winehouse, straight-up portrays the musician as a lost, lonely girl while simultaneously refusing to outright address the exploitative nature of the still-living Mitch Winehouse and Blake Fielder-Civil. Thus, the film does little to portray Amy Winehouse beyond the caricature pop culture had already painted her out to be. That said, would it have been possible to not deny Winehouse her authenticity when little-to-no people who knew her are creating this drama about her life?
When Victimhood Overshadows Humanity
In a perhaps even more extreme case, Andrew Dominik’s Blonde (2022) (also produced by the aforementioned Brad Pitt) is an adaptation of Joyce Carol Oates’ novel of the same name. Strangely, it’s marketed as a biographical film; not a fictionalized version of the actress’s life. Real names – real men, mostly – that were attached to Monroe appear in the film, such as President John F. Kennedy, who forces Monroe to perform oral sex on him before raping her. It’s not the only graphic scene in the film, either. Monroe constantly endures abuse beyond the sexual. In its attempt to humanize her, Monroe is further boxed in as a victim. Glamorous, yes, beautiful, of course, and above all, a helpless victim.
The Quest for Authenticity
These women were nowhere to be found when their life stories were thrust to those who never knew them. The artists don’t know the intimate intricacies and details of their journeys, thus ironically resigning them – or their memory – further into a corner that presents the exact opposite of what Taylor-Johnson and Dominik set out to do: humanize their subjects. This in and of itself is, was, and always would be impossible.
Examining Ethical Quandaries in Art
Todd Haynes’ May December (2023), aptly premiering at the 76th Cannes Film Festival in May and then wide-releasing on December 1st, follows a slippery slope. It paradoxically critiques, or if not critiques, examines the ethics surrounding using another person’s trauma as a means to create art.
The film is not an adaptation but admittedly primarily inspired by the Mary Kay Letourneau scandal. It depicts an actress, Elizabeth (Natalie Portman), who travels to study a woman she will portray. The woman in question: Gracie Atherton-Yoo (Julianne Moore), a controversial figure who infamously pursued a 24-year-long relationship that first began when she was thirty-six and her husband as well as father of three of her children, Joe Yoo (Charles Melton), was thirteen.
After the relationship between Elizabeth and Joe grows, things halt as Elizabeth refers to his life experience as a “story.” Joe frustratedly exclaims that it is not a story but his life. Vili Fualaau, the “real-life” Joe, mentions that no one ever informed him of the film and claims offense. He states, “I’m offended by the entire project and the lack of respect given to me—who lived through a real story and is still living it.”
A Case of Personal Authorship
But what about those who do get the opportunity to exercise autonomy over their own stories? Richard Gadd, creator of Netflix phenomenon Baby Reindeer (2024), adapted from Gadd’s autobiographical one-man play, follows Donny Dunn as he faces harassment from a convicted stalker, Martha, whom he once cheered up at work. The miniseries delves into gruesome details of sexual assault, how it can conflict with one’s idea of masculinity and sexuality, and what it means to come to peace with all the trauma one has endured.
There are glaring differences between Baby Reindeer and the aforementioned films, specifically Blonde and Back to Black. Dunn (Gadd) does not have celebrity status, he is male, and he is still living. But what is maybe the largest difference is that Gadd created the story himself. Gadd says it is “all emotionally 100-percent true,” something that cannot be said for all other depictions of trauma.
The Importance of Personal Agency
The bottom line is that it all comes down to one’s own volition. Baby Reindeer is a strong indicator we may be headed in the right direction. Films such as Blonde and Back to Black inform us we’ve still got far to go.
