The cinematic narrative has always been Man's playground-just look at the ways in which film treats men and women.
A male character's personality possibilities are boundless. He might be dominant or submissive. He might struggle with love, his job, an arch-nemesis, self-actualization-anything.
Women, on the other hand, tend to function in four sharply circumscribed roles: as mothers, incomplete souls looking for a partner (usually a man), sex objects or-if they have any semblance of power at all-villains.
I can think of only a handful of films that break free of these fetters.
Hilariously one-named director Pitof's 2004 "Catwoman" is not one of them. The movie, like HBO's woefully successful TV series "Sex and the City," deceptively paints itself as an empowering, liberating feminist story. In reality, however, it only perpetuates the selfsame inequities that it purportedly seeks to debunk.
"Catwoman" centers on Patience Phillips (Halle Berry), a meek, under-confident wannabe artist who illustrates ad campaigns for the Hedare beauty company.
Before her auspicious felinic (not a word, I know) transformation, she ingratiatingly appeals to her chauvinistic boss, seems incapable of even defending herself orally and folds at the slightest whiff of confrontation.
Perhaps her demure attitude represents certain societal expectations of feminine submissiveness.
The name Patience itself is troubling in that it implies its character-a woman-is expected to wait (patiently), rather than be assertive. This notion reduces her, at best, to a second-class citizen.
In effect, she's a mouse-the hunted.
On a routine errand, Patience overhears her boss's wife (Sharon Stone) conferring with a scientist about the skin-wrecking effects of Hedare's new anti-aging cream, Beauline.
Patience knocks over a paint can or something, triggering the finely honed intruder-sense of a few square-jawed guards. They chase her into some giant pipes, turn on the water and flush her into the sea in a torrent of waste.
She dies.
A multitude of felines descend upon her, and one, an Egyptian Mau named Midnight, senses something in her-unparalleled goodness? I don't know-and channels revitalizing energy into her corpse.
Bang.
Quick as sand, Patience is reborn in the ancient vein of so many historical women. She becomes...Catwoman-the hunter.
With heightened senses, Herculean strength and, uh, puma-like agility, Patience emerges an enhanced woman: fiercely independent, bestial, confident, sexified, lusty and sassy. Her transformation has also renovated her feeble psyche into cold, hard assertiveness.
In other words, the new Patience "plays by her own rules." She's no longer a diffident Darcy.
"Catwoman's" writers seem to think that Patience's felincarnation (again, I know) exemplifies potent, unmitigated femininity.
I fail to see how a slender, greased woman gallivanting about the city in glorified bondage gear-which supposedly symbolizes unfettered independence and liberation-exemplifies anything but raw objectification, dehumanization and, in a sense, oppression.
For one thing, it's impractical. Catwoman's tight leather ensemble and ridiculous heels couldn't possibly permit her to move lithely. Realistically, such a wardrobe decision would hinder her agility and freedom of motion. It seems a bit odd that a superhero's aesthetic appeal supersedes sensibility.
Under no circumstances is the suit a means of liberation, a sign that the new Patience is strong, feisty, unconstrained and will never surrender. Rather, wearing it delineates an immediate surrender to stratospheric societal standards of sexiness.
For many males, the suit serves a fundamental function: fulfillment of the exploitative Dominatrix fantasy (why would a cat have a whip?). Her ensemble marks her as a sexy doll-something sexual, not someone heroic.
And this doll doesn't even have a face.
Catwoman's mask obscures any modicum of humanity. Her face is concealed, which directs focus right to her gleaming, strategically-torn-leather-clad body, reiterating her role as a sort of ambulatory sex object.
In a disorienting turn, after Catwoman saves the day and gets her guy, she self-banishes.
Wait, wait, wait-she has a good reason.
She, as an independent woman, feels displaced in a society that oppresses all women-especially those who combat their oppression.
This is a little ironic: She can't properly function in a society overrun by the very ideals she embodies. Not even her newfound boldness can help her combat societal oppression.
Though "Catwoman" presents its protagonist as an example of a strong female lead, she is, in reality, nothing more than a shamelessly static female archetype.
Ultimately, one gets the feeling that perhaps the film implies there is no place in society for an independent (and strong) woman.
Such intimation begs the question: Is "Catwoman" presenting these blatant examples of chauvinism and oppression to promote them or to open our eyes?
Or is the film-and its makers-just completely oblivious?
This has been Ben Zalkind reminding you that bad movies make you think.
b.zalkind@chronicle.utah.edu
