Tag Archives: masculinity

Cultural and gender appropriation in the film “Downhill”

Watched the same film twice over the weekend, sort of. The first was Force Majeure, a French-Swedish film from 2014 that was acclaimed upon its release and won the jury prize at the Cannes film festival. I’d not heard of it, but that didn’t matter. I’m open to foreign films that sometimes sneak into our theaters and festivals, and now onto my cable subscription, so I was game for the viewing. What I also didn’t know was that this film was the basis for the Will Farrell/Julie Louise Dreyfus comedy, Downhill, released earlier this year. And what most don’t seem to understand, including sympathetic critics and especially the producers of the remake, is that Force Majeure is not the singular critique of masculine ego they think it is.

First, the question of comedy. The opening sequences of FM, slow as they are, don’t suggest that. The plot follows an ordinary family of four vacationing at a ski resort, and appearing to have a nice, if underwhelming time at first. Drama begins when a “controlled” avalanche plows into a restaurant wherein the family is dining, sending them all scurrying for cover. The horror, as the wife and mother later calls it, is over in seconds, though the trauma persists and the avalanche becomes a symbol of something else that disturbs them. The real trauma proceeds as the husband appears to deny what the wife, his kids, and we, the audience, clearly observe in the earlier scene: that he “runs away” from the oncoming avalanche, abandoning his family because of terrified feelings that he spends much of the film denying. Gaslighting, and so on. When he finally accepts the truth of his fear and paternal failure, he collapses into sobbing shame, but a repair with his wife and kids becomes possible thereafter. As the film moves towards its climax, it’s not clear whether he will redeem himself. But he does, ultimately, rescuing his wife in a later scene after she has fallen when skiing. Then, in an epilogue scene that depicts her continued sensitivity to ambiguous dangers, the husband takes center stage, shepherding his kids along a country road alongside his wife and walking proudly towards a sympathetic camera.   

In watching the Downhill remake, I was first struck by the reduced running time, which is about a half hour less. Initially, I figured this was about picking up the pace: European films, I notice, are often slower in their depiction of action or character. They set scenes with more stillness, and more visuals than dialogue to build context, relying upon levels of patience that American audiences (mainstream anyway) likely don’t have. Next, the most notable feature is the absence of comedy. Actually, it’s not fair to say that either version is lacking in “dark” laughs, but in FM, in particular, they are few and far between, though they are more subtle. Best example: after the husband’s friend tries to intervene with the family trauma, engaging the tense couple in an impromptu therapy session, he later wars with his own girlfriend about all of the themes implied in the earlier conflict. Hilarious. Anyway, in Downhill, the corresponding scenes are flat (seems like they got cut), and Farrell and Dreyfus’ usual charm is wasted—though I thought both did well with the dramatic material. However, additional or changed elements seem either gratuitous or inconsequential. Dreyfus’ wife character picks up an oversexed friend at the resort, a character that is ridiculous and, frankly, unfunny, unlike the reserved, confident and thus intriguing character this is based upon from FM. Also, Dreyfus is more irascible and prudish than the wife from the earlier film, which sets up a “You go-girl” flirtation and casual sex scene with a predictably hunkish ski instructor. Meanwhile, the filmmakers exploit Farrell’s man-child persona, at one point having him plod about drunkenly like his more entertaining characters do in other films. Some think Farrell was miscast, thinking the husband is meant to be an alpha-male. But this reflects either a facile understanding of FM, or a deliberate revision of its more even-handed themes. In Downhill, Farrell is meant to be an average Joe, perhaps what Robert Bly once termed a “soft male”, quietly grieving a deceased father; timid with his angry spouse—not a wayward stud who merits a take-down. Admittedly, this renders Farrell a bit stiff: a docile, phone-fixated man who likes to use and speak of hashtags.  

But the biggest difference between these two films lies in the ending, and it’s an ending that illustrates where Hollywood is going wrong these days, pandering to its zeitgeist, anti-male politics, plus its insistence upon the explicit. In Downhill’s climactic ending, the scene in which the husband is alone with his kids on a ski slope, waiting for their mother to appear after having trailed behind them, begins more or less as the scene from the source material does. As in Force Majeure, the wife becomes separated from her family, is nowhere to be seen, and remains so for several moments, unheard until she issues a dimly audible distress call. Feeling emboldened—his chance for redemption arriving—Farrell’s character says, “stay right here” to his boys, and runs back (not away), ostensibly to rescue his wife, as in the earlier film. But here there’s a switch. In Downhill, the husband finds the wife, who has feigned a fall and cried out because she’s decided upon a ruse: “this is for the boys”, she says, directing her husband to cooperate and carry her to safety, therefore pretending to rescue her. Now, something similar might have occurred in FM—meaning, the wife in that story might have contrived the climactic rescue also—but the audience can only wonder about this when watching that film. Well, mainstream American cinema doesn’t do that. American cinema explains. Therefore, by Dreyfus’ character’s action and speech, she gets to be the hero, not him, by clearly taking what is now a psychological versus literal fall: protecting the ego and the good father image, however false that is. And she lets him know it. Oh, the things women have to do to sacrifice themselves to help men feel better, blah, blah, blah. Wives of the world unite, etc. The scene also makes sense of a previously inscrutable change: the casting of two boys in the child roles versus the brother/sister pairing of FM. So, this is about modeling proper male behavior for the 21st century—a theme that might have been blunted, producers likely thought, if one of the children had been female.

Those same producers, or someone at the top, further ignored the layered meaning of FM’s epilogue scene, or they missed its final subtlety. I did too, actually, until my wife pointed it out, which led to a second viewing of this epilogue. See, in this scene, the family is heading back home on a coach that is traveling along a treacherous road, only the driver seems incompetent, steering perilously close to mountainside precipices. As the scene unfolds, the camera focuses upon the neurotic wife, who first complains to the driver, and then demands that he stop the coach and let all the passengers off. When he complies, the wife cries “let me off!” and dashes out, at first leaving her husband and children behind, which mirrors the “run away” moment when the avalanche hit the restaurant. Within moments, the wife is back in the company of her family, but not before the subliminal message has been sent: namely, that she has acted with as much fear as her husband had earlier in the film. The question is, will this get noticed? Will the husband, or the kids, remonstrate against her “running away” as she did against his cowardice? And will she be as defensive, as gaslighting, as he was? Will anyone, including the filmgoer, even notice? Anyway, this bookending of near disasters, overlooked by observers of either film, it seems, balances the scales of gender comment.

It might even be a rebuke of post-modern double standards: a trick played upon viewers, reverse-gaslighting with what the filmmaker says is happening, whether we notice it or not. The trick is that masculine cowardice is highlighted, which might stir the feathers of both progressive and conservative contempt (albeit for different reasons), while feminine flight is either unnoticed or else cast in a sympathetic light, as “trauma”, not cowardice. If this is the case then the French/Swedish film may in time be regarded as a masterpiece of social satire: an astute insight into the obtuse hypocrisy of our times. In the meantime, for the sensibilities that do reign today, especially in the United States, FM’s ending is a mysterious canvas, one that likely flew over the heads of Downhill’s producer’s (pun intended); that is, unless they had observant wives also. Anyway, FM’s final images are of the husband smoking a cigarette as he walks, exercising a rediscovered free will, one might think, while the wife asks that his friend, a man who has shown a level head in tense moments, carry their tired daughter along that cold mountain road. Another symbolic rebuke of the husband, despite having made the fuss that placed them on that road. Downhill ignores these meanings, substituting for this scene an equally oblique if duller ending in which a mini-avalanche from a hotel roof-top drops a pile of snow between the Farrell and Dreyfus characters. Divided still, we’re meant to notice. Careful or caretaking of each other? Unknown. But this epilogue does nothing to nuance Downhill’s more tendentious climax, whose gynocentric message is directed at a short-attention span, post Me-Too constituency that wants women to be heroes, not for men to redeem themselves in traditional fashion.

So what? Not for the first time, Hollywood bastardizes a foreign original and plays to its own base. Or the base it thinks it knows, or seeks to manipulate. Of course, mutation (or mutilation) of an original source isn’t exclusively a Hollywood vice, nor are adaptations typically this offensive. Indeed, some have suggested that Force Majeure itself bears a distinct resemblance to a Hemingway story, “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomba”, from 1936. But the alterations within Downhill betray either an unconscious bias or a deliberately crafted agenda for 2020. Were Downhill an original script, one could argue that its filmmakers simply wished a positive message for average Joe and Jane: to empower women and nudge men with a rightful smote upon their much-publicized egotism. Not a hard pitch post-2018, one would think. But the fact that filmmakers did ignore, willfully or not, the more evenly depicted gender themes of FM, including its (upon second glance) unmistakably judgement-altering finale, exposes their disingenuous quasi-feminist position: that fairness or equality-seeking ethos that supposedly governs their art. Who knows how important the script and character changes are or will be for a mainstream American audience, or how popular they may be for viewers who share the social engineering agendas of Hollywood’s nouveau brass, but from what I gather and have read, Downhill has not been acclaimed so far, is not likely to win awards, and is a relative flop at the box office. Its vapidity, among other faults, has been laid bare. This may be what happens when a good story is intruded upon with what someone in power thinks ought to happen.

#servesyouright

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The Accident

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I wasn’t even running late. At a quarter to five, I had about a half hour to get to an office that was just over a mile away. The thing is that I had multiple things on my mind, such as the limited number of checks at my disposal that week. I’d just ordered more, but in all likelihood they wouldn’t arrive before several bills were due. Then there was the form I was to fax off to the hospital: my wife’s healthcare plan. Would I have time for a quick trip to Kinko’s? I wondered.
Driving alongside the high school, I glanced to my left, then to my right. As my eyes passed over the digital clock next to the steering wheel, I noted an SUV about thirty yards ahead of me, but thought nothing of it. It was a twenty five mile per hour zone, or thereabouts, not that everyone adheres strictly to that limit. I was going around thirty, possibly a bit faster, and the SUV? Okay, maybe it was slowing down, obeying the speed limit, being more attentive to the distractible teens ambling along the sidewalkless road. Meanwhile, as my thoughts converged on a narrowing lane of consciousness, one more managed to squeeze in: wait, is that car even moving? I was still traveling at thirty plus miles per hour. The SUV, my disbelieving eyes notwithstanding, had ground to a halt with its indicator light clearly on, signifying a turn it was patiently waiting to make.
There was no way, I thought—no way I’d avoid a collision. I was about ten yards away, and at the speed I was going, contact was imminent. Still, I slammed on the brakes, thinking I’d turn my car to its side and crash into the back of the SUV with my driver’s side door leading the plunge. Less damage, I figured–to the car? me? It didn’t happen like that. Moments later, after a split second wherein I’d resigned myself not only to a crash but also personal injury, the front of my car hit the bumper of the SUV, the impact jolting the vehicle forward as I came to a shuddering halt. There was little if any time to feel anything: no pain, no relief for not having pain; no time, even, to process the sound of metal crunching. Immediately, the driver of the SUV, an middle-aged man wearing glasses who resembled the haunted leading man of Breaking Bad, exited and marched—no, he strode—towards me. As he reached my door he stopped and looked down through my window, staring at my face. He flinched like he was tempted to reach out, grab the door handle, and then pull me from my car. Instead, he waited, chomping on the bit to say something unpleasant.
“I’m sorry, are you okay?” I managed miraculously as I rose from my car.
“I’m pissed off and feel like kicking your ass,” shouted the man, his glasses shaking. I was shaking too. Had I looked down I might have seen his fists clenched, held in check by his side, but poised to strike at the slightest provocation. I didn’t look down. There was none of that looking up or down, so to speak—none of those provocative right brain gestures. Instead my eyes glanced off his face and into the distance with fleeting connection. It was a reptilian act, this look of mine: aversive, escapist; seeking the still territory. Peace.
“Please don’t,” I simply replied. Other words came to mind, don’t get me wrong. Talking to others since this incident, I speculate that some combination of intuition and training, my attachment gifts or pathology, depending on one’s point of view, clicked in and took over. You see, there were rules afoot in the above described moment: rules that may apply to men and women, but especially to men. Rule one says that if you want to not escalate a dispute following a threat, you must not counterthreat. This isn’t difficult to understand. It’s somewhat harder to execute, of course, again depending on your point of view. Rule two, however, is more obscure, much less talked about, and in my opinion, almost exquisitely difficult to execute. Rule two says that if you want to diffuse a threat, you must not state or even imply that the aggressor cannot do what he or she threatens. In order to proceed safely, as my loved ones (especially the women) would demand, I had to bite down—as in bite down hard—on the following type of answer: oh yeah, why don’t you give it your best shot?
Call it fear. Call it training. Call it empathy. Call it self preservation. Something moved me, quite consciously I might add, to be short, reasoned, yet uninflammatory in my response. Over the next minute or so, the other driver and I exchanged information while my body decompressed, my nerves rattled, and my shame—my shame at being a bad driver, that is—percolated. My adversary was soon quieted, possibly disoriented, and five minutes later he was on his way, muttering that he or his insurance company would “be in touch”. Another kind of threat. On the one hand, he too may have seen the wisdom of not escalating: why risk trouble for an assault if a judgment of my fault regarding the accident was impending? Secondly, upon noting his own lack of injury plus the relative lack of damage to his vehicle (his got scratches; I got the worst of it), he may have been decompressing also, not to mention feeling relieved that he hadn’t lost control and struck me. As I proffered my license and policy, he may have felt my defeat, my two-fold humiliation: my implied acknowledgement of fault; my swallowing of his threat without reprisal or counter-provocation.
Within the confines of a subculture that places value, real value, upon the undefended experience of fear, I can feel unjudged, held, perhaps even admired. It’s one of the perks of being a therapist, the immersion into this kind of sensibility. Some will comment that by appealing for no harm, for myself at least and possibly for the other driver, I had demonstrated real strength. I had presented myself with dignity, acted like the bigger man.
Who knows if my now absented adversary will think of these things, process notions of masculinity alongside the experience of trauma, mine or his? I hope he will. From within my fantasy, I hope that he will recall the rage with which he initially approached me; the transformation in him that seemed to take place as he observed my shaken, non-threatening demeanor; my disarming yet unprideful statement to him. In my book, Working Through Rehab: An Inside Look at Adolescent Drug Treatment, I write about kids who might not even conceive of the lessons I draw from this accident. I write about kids with severe attachment pathology, long histories of violence, substance abuse to medicate feelings like fear and shame; a habit of psychic equivalence wherein feeling equals fact; a baseline bias towards survival in which time and perspective is shortened, split seconds become nanoseconds, and empathy—that capacity to feel into another and step outside of oneself—is forsaken. Observe the following passage from WTR:
“On the surface, it seemed to me that kids got into fights not so much because of gang rivalries or social marginalization, but instead because of more plainly interpersonal conflicts, such as that incident with Eddie and his hapless rival. Someone gets looked at the wrong way, and feels disrespected; someone’s shoulder gets bumped, and feels threatened, at risk of being a punk. For those feeling a surfeit of frustrations or humiliations in their lives, and without a place, the aptitude, or even the permission to speak openly of these stressors, “stupid stuff” becomes inflated in meaning. Seemingly trivial stressors are the proverbial straws on camels’ backs. As a result, thousands of clients have struggled their way through Therapeutic Communities walking a knife edge.”

**photo by Helnwein

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