#the male gaze
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Absolutely losing my mind over the opening cutscene for the Zaya Observatory mission in multiplayer CoD: MWII bc of one thing: cinematography.
These are examples of Ass Shots of Female Characters bc the male gaze exists. The shot is focused on their rear and everything else follows, and this is where the viewer's eye is drawn. Ends up emphasizing and objectifying their physical (and therefore sexual) value instead of other characteristics.
SO SOMEONE EXPLAIN THIS TO ME:
Framing! His ass is EXACTLY center.
THE RED GLOW STICKS??? AGAINST THE BLACK BACKGROUND??? My eye goes right there. RIGHT THERE.
WHY DOES ACTIVISION WANT ME TO STARE AT PHILLIP GRAVES' ASS??? @cod-dump look at this what is this what is happening
#WHY????#COULDA STARTED AT HIS SHOULDERS???#BUT NO????#ASS SHOT???#I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS ALL FUCKING DAY#phillip graves#the male gaze#somehow it applies herr#cod mwii#cod mwiii#cod mw3#cod modern warzone#shadow company#call of duty
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- j (x)
#the female experience#feminism#the male gaze#poetry#spilled thoughts#prose#journal#dark academia#spilled ink#mental health#quotes#poem#life quotes#literature#poets on tumblr#thoughts#words#spilled poetry#existentialism#aesthetic#original post#maybe-itsforthebest
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Grown men preying on young women:
‘If I was some paint did I splatter on a promising grown man? If I was a child did it matter that you got to wash your hands?’ - Taylor Swift, Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve
Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, House of the Dragon // Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber // Sansa Stark and Petyr Baelish, Game of Thrones // Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran.
Inspired by this post.
#reupload#the last one was hard to read#the sexualisation of young girls by men trying to relive their youth is fucking disgusting#web weaving#mine#alicent hightower#viserys targaryen#sansa stark#petyr baelish#house of the dragon#game of thrones#reading lolita in tehran#Lolita#azar nafisi#angela carter#the bloody chamber#girlhood#womanhood#objectification#the male gaze
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“the bus ride home” /// a poem about the male gaze
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ATTENZIONE !!!! i took a shower today
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Voyeurism vs. Provocation: The Gaze in The Patriot
In my copious reading/video watching about The Patriot I've found very little interpretation focused on sexuality. Perhaps this should be unsurprising since the only characters who definitely have sex are Benjamin Martin and Charlotte Selton, as evidenced by the baby in her arms in the film's final scene. When commentors do address it, focus tends to be on the male gaze; the camera lingers on Charlotte's decolettage in times of danger and romance alike. It is hard to imagine a character who more fully exudes, to use Laura Mulvey's words in "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema" (1975), "to be looked at ness." Apart from getting the Martin children to safety in a dragoon attack (which, to be fair, is more than their father could do!) that is her main purpose in this story. This is to be expected given the film's cardboard flat representation of women generally. but what is surprising is the insistence of some commentors that William Tavington's bare chest in the famed river scene serves the same purpose, only for a specifically female audience.
According to Mulvey, "Traditionally, the woman displayed has functioned on two levels: as erotic object for the characters within the screen story, and as erotic object for the spectators in the auditorium, with a shifting attention between the looks on either side of the screen" (2013 reprint in Feminism and Film Theory). All of this applies to Charlotte. Though Ben Martin can barely be bothered to glance her way early on, he has no problem allowing her to care for his current children and bear him future ones. Indeed, given that their first and only kiss happens after caring for his children costs her a plantation, the second appears to be a reward for the first. Lucky woman :/
The costume Charlotte wears after this encounter is her most revealing of all: her arms as well as her chest left bare. Now that the hero has deemed her worth looking at, the audience also gets a greater share of the bounty he has uncovered for us. Tavington, meanwhile, gets dressed down several times, but no one undresses him but himself.
Tavington is a significantly more active figure in the story, and he only appears thus improperly dressed here and the deleted scene in the DVD bonus features/extended cut when he advances on General Cornwallis, urging him not to withhold his reward (ok, whore). Not only are women notably absent from both of these scenes, but Tavington has no interaction with women in the film whatsoever. Anna shouts at him in the church he is about to burn, and he ignores her. Two women appear in the foreground when he shoots back champagne after the militia-engineered ship explosion, but it is as likely that they all wanted drinks at the same time as that they were engaged in conversation. The best opportunity for Tavington to engage with a woman is his surprise visit to Charlotte's plantation, but instead that honor goes to Martin's son, Nathan.
Not only is Tavington uninterested in women, and they in him for all we see, the film's female characters exist to do one of two things: have and/or care for men's babies or die for their motivation. But the filmmakers are getting the main villain out of his clothes exclusively to provide eye candy "for the ladies" . . . sure.
It is a little disorienting when he emerges from having washed the smoke out of his hair in the river like Venus rising from the sea. Every other British soldier is dressed to regulation in every scene (apart from one blink and you miss it glimpse of dragoons dining in their tent with their jackets off . . . ohh, scandalous!). Tavington, with his shirt open to the sternum and only his jacket over it, looks positively obscene in comparison. None of this was lost on the film's gay director, Roland Emmerich, who made the absolute most of it. But let's assume, just for a moment, that this wanton spectacle actually has some relevance to the plot and reveals something about this character.
This is the final scene of what I call the film's Golden Hour (you do not have to tell me it is significantly less than an hour!) that takes us from the prisoner exchange to Gabriel's death. These scenes also reveal a new strategy on Tavington's part. Up until this point, he has been bent on killing as many rebel soldiers and making examples of as many of their supporters as possible. Once he recognizes Martin, though, his tactic shifts from executing men to provoking attack by men.
Gloating about killing Martin's son: provocation
Targeting militia men's families: provocation
Collapsing with his back to his assailant and his ass in the air: provocation
Initially, Tavington appears to get more than he bargained for in the river scene. He seems to be caught unaware, at a distance from his weapons, vulnerable to attack. If he is, he gets over it quickly, running to arm himself while his men fight and casually dispatching the attacking rebels who get past them. Gabriel is able to wound Tavington not by outfighting him but because Tavinton's latest victim throws him a loaded musket before falling down dead. Handy.
Tavington puts himself in an extremely vulnerable position. Not only is his back to Gabriel, but he lying prone, which means he needs even greater speed and agility to flip over and stab Gabriel than Gabriel's father will need, while kneeling, to avenge him later. And it will be all for naught if Gabriel reloads and shoots him again like a sensible person. But he is not thinking sensibly; it is called bloodlust for a reason. Tavington is banking not only on his backside proving too tempting a target to resist but on Gabriel's desire to stick his weapon into him at close range. Even the roar Gabriel lets out as he raises his knife aids in Tavington's aims.
Bathing after burning someone's house down is a risk too, especially so soon after taking out several militia men's families in one swoop, but it is one Tavington is willing to take. Perhaps the way he looks is "for" someone here, but it is someone he is expecting, and it is not the Loyalist Ladies Sewing Society. He already knows Martin prefers to have the advantage of surprise when he attacks, so surprised is what he'll be.
Martin, however, is not only less susceptible to this tactic than his son, but he employs it himself. For a moment, it looks as though Tavington's goading in front of the fort is going to work, but once he is so close that only Tavington can hear him . . .
"Before this war is over I am going to kill you."
Tavington, without missing a beat: "Why wait?"
Martin, considering, looking Tavington over sultrily as he does so: "Soon."
(Ok, whore)
Tavington is skilled at using other men's dark desires to his advantage, but he is the subject of such desires too, and this proves to be his downfall. Martin's tactic of provoking a British attack works not because Cornwallis holds the militia in contempt but because he fears Tavington will steal his glory. Tavington charges into battle ahead of his men because he wants Martin.
Desire is not in short supply in The Patriot; it just mostly exists between men. The river scene provides perhaps the best example of this. Tavington is not like Charlotte, or the heroines Mulvey describes as passive objects of a controlling, sexualizing gaze. He knows what he's about. That does not mean women should not be tantalized by him--that would be ridiculous. But there is a big difference between enjoying something and believing it exists solely for the purpose of your enjoyment.
#the patriot#william tavington#jason isaacs#laura mulvey#the male gaze#charlotte selton#gabriel martin#benjamin martin
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To be a woman, young and all alone, is hard - hard!-
is to want things, is to carry a heavy, heavy weight.
Why is this - and what is it that is hurting so? Is it because I am young, or is it because I am alone, or because I am a woman?
Oh, it is a hard and bitter thing to be a woman! And why - why?
Is woman so foul a creature that she must needs be purged by this infinite pain?
I am a woman, ... - a lonely, damned thing filled with the red, red blood of ambition and desire, but afraid to be touched,
for there is no thick skin between myself and the world's fingers.
⸻ ᴹᵃʳʸ ᴹᵃᶜᴸᵃⁿᵉ, ᶠʳᵃᵍᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ ᵒⁿ ᵇᵉⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ʷᵒᵐᵃⁿ, ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᴵ ᴬʷᵃⁱᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᴰᵉᵛⁱˡ'ˢ ᶜᵒᵐⁱⁿᵍ.
#moodboard#aesthetic moodboard#aesthetic#quote#mary maclane quotes#i await the devils coming#the female gaze#the male gaze#marilyn munroe#jennifer check#jennifer's body#female director#feminism#female rage
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youtube
[censored] The Lesbian Gaze, now on Youtube!
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The Obsession with Female Rage in Media by Final Girl Studios
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Ornament
My worst fear is becoming an ornament to society. Oh, wait… I already am one. That’s all a woman is in this world; an object. If she’s not seen as pretty by the standards of today, then she is nothing; but if she happens to fit the mould, then she is an ornament. She will never be known for her curious mind or her compassionate soul. Only for her face; only for her body. That is what is of use to the male species.
Her mind and soul threaten the power and authority of the fragile male ego, so they ignore her intellect; devalue her emotions. Men can’t allow their ego to break, but the ornament? Let it shatter. And once it is broken, he’ll replace it. Because us “bitches” are all the same. We are just one of many hollow, shiny, ornaments hanging on the man’s tree. Aren’t we? Maybe not to you. And certainly, not to most other women. But to the pathetic, simple-minded, “alpha” male; to the society he created, I’m just a pretty, little ornament that only exists for his objectifying gaze.
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One of the best video essays I have ever watched.
Such an excellent exploration of the male gaze and how women experience it.
youtube
#horrible flashbacks to being a teenager#and a woman travelling alone#Feminism#the male gaze#Youtube
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I just watched the new Netflix movie "Damsel"
I liked the movie. Nothing too great but entertaining and I like a badass female main character and dragons.
But fuck this was made for the male gaze. Like. The protagonist felt stupidly sexy, especially at the end. Way too much! It was distracting of the plot and it personally really annoyed me
I love seeing a bad bitch slay but she was just made to be gazed upon by hetero men
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Hello I just rejoined this hell site after a decade of touching grass. Turns out touching grass turns you into a media analyst. Who knew?
Anyway this isn’t my latest vid but from what I remember from the 2014 era around here it’s the kinda shit y’all’ll be into.
youtube
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the male gaze
#art#artists on tumblr#illustration#illustrators on tumblr#original art#digital art#digital illustration#illustrative art#the male gaze#original character
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The Male Gaze: The Man Inside My Head
I’ve been thinking a lot about Margaret Atwood’s famous quote about male fantasies from ‘The Robber Bride’:
“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out or too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
So I decided to write a poem about it: this is called ‘The Man Inside My Head’
I can’t remember a time in my life where I did not have a voyeuristic relationship with who I am and who I’m trying to be.
There is a man inside my head watching me, his gaze always lingering on me as I go through the motions of my day.
He watches me intently, like a scientist examining new matter.
He watches me as a child, pedalling my bicycle along the streets of my youth.
He watches my balance as I ride, keeps his eyes on me as I fall and scrape my knees and cry, disapproves of my inability to pedal with grace, disapproves of the cuts on my arms and the tears on my face.
He watches me as I sit on the floor of my 6th grade classroom with my legs pressed together, covering myself with a jumper, in a misguided attempt at modesty.
He watches me as an adolescent, sitting in the middle of school assemblies, measuring the amount of space I take up, as I learn all the ways I can shrink myself more.
He watches me as I grow, as my body becomes fuller, as I bleed and veer into womanhood and his gaze becomes harder, more demanding.
He watches the way I speak, the controlled tenor of my voice, how soft it can be, how sweet and yielding like sugar cubes that melt in your tea.
He watches the way I am with people, how I interact - politely and with deference, but never timid. He doesn’t like meekness.
He watches the way I treat the people I know, whether I am kind and sympathetic enough, whether I carry their pain and forgive their mistakes and shoulder their burdens and help them through hurdles.
He watches the way I cry in silence on my bathroom floor, the way the tears make my skin glow, if my lashes are more prominent as I stare into my mirrored reflection hoping that I am suffering beautifully, hoping he finds my pain loveable.
He watches as I rip hair off my over tired body, welcoming hurt in the pursuit of beauty.
As I brush, and scrub, and massage and pull and thread and wash, till I feel clean enough for him to look at.
He watches me as I lie in bed, and decide which position will allow me to look my best, which angle is most flattering as I try to get some rest.
He watches as I pretend to be above these things, as I pretend not to care about his or others opinions, my half baked defiance in the face of gendered expectation.
He watches me as I try to rebel, but making sure I do it in a way that he finds sexy, my rebellion needs to be pleasing, attractive, a challenge he finds interesting or amusing enough to indulge.
The man inside my head watches me constantly as I strive for unattainable perfection, scrutinises every inch of my body, every element of my personality as I try to live up to his warped fantasy.
The man inside my head is every man I imagine imagining me: my voyeur watching me through the Keyhole and no one ever told me that I exist outside of him.
That I exist outside the realm of men’s thoughts, that the male gaze is embedded so deeply in our psyche that the male fantasies we internalise take lifetimes to erase, that this mind and body comes with decades of systemic brainwash.
Even in the privacy of my own thoughts, in the sanctuary of my own mind, the male gaze governs everything, colours my world unshakeably.
It sits atop a throne, issues commands, enforces an order in which I am made small, in which I am made scared.
The man inside my head knows that I want to be wanted more than I want to want.
He knows that I want to be the object of love and desire, that I am yearning for arms and attention and affection.
And that I am at the same time repulsed by that.
But still.
At least, at least I know now of his presence, at least I know now, at least intuitively, that I am not here to make him comfortable.
At least I know now of a moment when I am enough and that is enough if this is the moment that I am no longer small, if this is the moment I am no longer scared.
In this moment, I am worthy even if the man inside my head doesn’t think I’m pretty.
In this moment, I do not owe it to him to be his fantasy. In this moment, I realise I never owed him anything at all.
#poetry#writing#quotes#feminism#excerpt from a book i'll never write#personal rant#margaret atwood#male fantasies#the male gaze#feministpoem#feministpoetry#the robber bride#feminist poem#female gaze#womens rights#brown women#women writers
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[TEXT] “"Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of vour own, that you can wash vour feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
Margaret Atwood’s The Robber Bride, 1993
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