Musings from Soylent Green

So after reading Jonathan's blog, wherein he encouraged his readers to watch Soylent Green right away, I did just that. I went online, found a free streaming of the movie, and watched the 94-minute film. Here's the most important thing I got from the film: It's no wonder feminism expanded so rapidly in the 1970s.

I mean, seriously. Yeah, the movie didactically tried to make us as humans feel both responsible and guilty for global warming, overpopulation, waste, and pollution, with perhaps the hope that we might change our evil ways as humans and learn to live as the deer do (probably among the deer, too). I'm sure at least one person took the message in this novel-adapted-to-film and responded by setting their car on fire, doffing their clothes, and screaming out passages of Silent Spring to shocked motorists waiting for the light at a freeway off-ramp. But I'm not here to write about all that tree-hugging stuff, cause there is something in that awful film that I feel even more strongly about.

I'm not a crazy feminist. I just happen to be a feminist and crazy...at the same time...no connection between the two. And the pro-male attitude in this film was not only blatant but rather appalling. Now I understand that when we look at history, we have to look at it through contemporary eyes, or we might be prone to cast unfair judgments on the people of the age. That being said, ho-lee-crap. The anti-feminism in that movie was so obvious, it made me cringe and actually heavily distracted me during the film. Twice I paused the film to begin typing a blog, but I decided to watch the entire thing before casting judgment. The ending certainly did not justify the unfair portrayal of women in this movie.

Here are the offensive events that I can recall from the movie:

Charlton Heston plays a rough cop in NYC who lives in a dying society, so, sure, he's a bit jaded. We see that by his actions during a murder investigation. While questioning associates of the deceased, he goes about the ritzy penthouse, stealing anything he sees as valuable. That gives us a fair idea of the kind of character he has. And I don't know if we're supposed to sympathize with him, or hate him (I hated him) or just pity the sad, sad state the world was in, but he was what he was and that is not the point.

The murdered man was very wealthy and rented a fancy penthouse complete with whore. I think her name was Shirl and she was actually a contracted part of the apartment, which is why most of the men in the film called her and her associates "furniture girls". I hate when people call grown women girls, but that is the least of the offenses within that phrase. She seemed perfectly okay with the terms of her employment and indeed, her lifestyle.

So Shirl stays in the apartment with a bunch of other whores while she waits for a new tenant to take over rent, residency, and her. One day Charlton Heston comes a-knockin', supposedly because he has some follow-up questions, but when he sees all the furniture girls comforting each other around the apartment, he takes someone's glass of alcohol, steals one of their cigarettes and then commands Shirl to talk with him in the bedroom. No one stops him or even protests as he dominates the apartment.

Very matter-of-factly, Shirl goes into the bedroom and, at his command, answers his questions while undressing and getting into the bed. After all, for a hired whore, this is just day-to-day business, and it means nothing to her that a man who has no authority over her actions (since he is not a tenant of the apartment and therefore not the renter of the "furniture") commands her to sleep with him. She does so without complaint.

Meanwhile, the landlord comes bursting into the apartment, finds all these women in there, and begins shouting for them to get out, the harlots. He punches one in the stomach, slaps another, pushes another, basically causing all the women to helplessly begin sobbing like children since obviously it never occurred to any of them to fight the douche, even though he was vastly outnumbered and a coward besides. No, nothing happens until Charlton Heston, fresh from his "questioning", comes out of the bedroom in his rumpled clothes and confronts the landlord, who immediately calms himself and apologizes for creating a scene. Charlton, like the very great hero he is, claims that he called all those girls into the apartment to question them and the landlord backs off, but not before Charlton walks around to the beaten, sobbing women and threatens the landlord that any of these "girls" might press charges. After examining one bruised woman's face, he shrugs and says, "Maybe not." Well, thank goodness Charlton Heston made the decision not to press charges FOR the furniture girls, so now the landlord can rest easy! I guess it wouldn't occur to any of the women that they could press charges withOUT the permission of a sexed-up, crooked cop.

Anyway, the fun continues and lots of dumb investigating goes on where Charlton Heston discovers more and more about the murder and its ties to the Soylent Corporation. He's getting too close, so his commander tries to make him sign a form, giving up the investigation. Heston refuses because he has just enough honor about him to refuse breaking the law. Riiiight. If he had given up, there would have been no movie, but nothing about Heston's character up to this point has proven that he would have had any qualms about signing that statement. But moving on.

Later, Heston's on riot duty, trying to calm the hordes of hungry people who came to collect their food rations on the day that a large shipment of soylent green didn't come in. Anger ensues, a mob forms, pushing against the police, and one angry citizen keeps trying to take a shot at Heston. Because of all the people, the gunman misses Heston twice, hitting two women instead. Of course. It's okay to accidentally shoot a woman, as evidenced by the fact that once those women drop, no one pays them any mind, including the movie audience. Luckily, the gunman later gets squashed by a "scooper"--a giant bulldozer used to scoop up people and dump them into the back of truck and out of the way.

Well things are going badly for Heston, so he seeks comfort in Shirl, sleeping with her again, letting her bandage his ankle when he gets injured, etc, etc. He's about to leave when she confesses that she doesn't like to be alone because it frightens her. He doesn't care, so she tries to entice him with real food, with soap, and then with a hot shower, which finally grabs his attention. Sleeping with a beautiful woman for nothing isn't enough for Heston--she's got to promise to rub him down after a hot shower first. I just love that she--as a piece of unfeeling furniture--begs him to stay with her when she's supposedly indifferent toward all men who aren't renting the apartment. I loved it even more when Heston was persuaded to stay only on the condition that she make him a big breakfast in the morning. This scene may be my very, very favorite.

Well, I promise I'm almost done with my list of grievances. Stuff happens, Heston gets closer to the impossible truth that "Soylent Green is made from people!" And as he's chased by bad guys, Shirl suddenly completely changes her personality and inexplicable develops a connection with the scuzzbag cop who slept with her repeatedly. She talks to him about running away together and he shuts her down with the excuse that there's nowhere to go. She asks him not to call her furniture anymore (you'd think he would've stopped that ages ago, but maybe he hadn't disassociated her from the refrigerator or the sofa or the other pieces in apartment yet. After all, he was busy being a crooked cop) and he surprisingly complies. Hooray! It's true love!

Close to the very end, Shirl meets the new apartment tenant, who is interested in the apartment and to a lesser degree, her. He asks her, "So tell me: are you fun?" We don't hear her answer, but the look on her face expresses her dislike of the new tenant. How dare he treat her like that! Yeah, right--when did she start caring about how she was viewed by men? She personally admitted multiple times that she had been "with the apartment" for "a long time". She was attached to the apartment by contract and it suited her just fine before the rugged cop raped her and hypothetically made her think more highly of herself.

So Heston's being chased by gunmen from the Soylent Corporation, and he knows he's going down. So who does he call? Shirl, of course. Somehow in between fornicating with the "furniture", he grew feelings for it as well. Completely inexplicably out of character. So he calls her and tells her to stay with the apartment forever, because the people who take over those ritzy places can afford real food, whereas the poor have to eat the soylent green squares. She protests, saying that she wants to run away with him, but he commands her to stay, so of course she promises. I would've thought that with her sudden transformation from submissive doormat to willing harlot, she would've grown enough spine to fight for the things she wants in life. But maybe it was too soon. She was just barely getting to hate the new tenant, after all.

Then Heston gets beat up real bad and is carried away on a stretcher, professing to the masses that soylent green is people. The end.

Well, I feel edified, how about you? All of these interactions with the women in this lame-o movie (and Shirl was the only significant woman--there was one other woman in the main cast, but she had, like ten lines) just oozed with male dominance and authority. And it was all a silent assumption, like the audience was supposed to be just as accepting of the way women were portrayed, treated, and how they behaved in the film as the men were in the film itself! H-E-DOUBLE-OTHER-LETTERS NO! I am more upset over the world as it was in the 1970s than over the preachy, false, exaggerative message of the movie! So for those of you who don't believe in radical feminism (myself included), we can probably admit that the feminist uprising of the 70s may not have been the absolute solution to male chauvinism, but it was better than leaving things the way they were: completely--wrongly--one-sided.

Awk. Ward.

I have applied to two thousand bjillion jobs from three different states and five different cities over the past four months. So when I got a call from a very professional-sounding woman who mumbled the business' name, I had no idea what it was about because I can't remember all the places I've applied for. Turns out, it was a phone interview. Crap. So she asked me if I had a few minutes for her to ask a few questions and I complied (I'm not working, what else do I have to do?). She asked me why I chose that business to apply to. Well how should I know? I don't know what the business is! "What makes you qualified for the position you applied for?" Could you be any more vague, professional-sounding lady? "Um, I'm uh, dedicated to working hard...and I" ...like to sound like an idiot on the phone! Gah!

After her painfully awkward questions in which I could only answer vaguely, she said from what she's heard, she'd like me to come in for an official interview on Friday. That's great and all, but if "what she's heard" is impressive, then she must be used to a lot of idiots. But what am I saying? I have an interview on Friday! It only stinks because that'll get me in SLC way, way later than I had planned. But how can I turn down the promise of work?

Over-Sensitivity Is My Absolute Favorite Part of This Politically Correct World

BAH!!!!!!!

Virtue Is A Virtue

I went to institute with my sisters the other night, and although I haven't been to an institute class since I was taking night classes at the community college, I rather enjoyed myself. Not only did I meet a bjillion people I haven't seen since my awful experiences in high school (who all wish us felicitations, btw, Josh), but I got to listen to my old seminary teacher, who is *awesome*. It was an incredible lesson, too, as evidenced by the fact that I didn't start writing a new chapter for my great American novel like I had planned to do. Instead, I actually took notes with the notepad I brought along. I was mighty surprised by that.

Anyhoo, the lesson was about the signs of the times (which, incidentally, is a direct phrase out of Doctrine and Covenants, section 6-something). Out of the 51 signs of the Second Coming that Elder Bruce R. McConkie pulled from the scriptures, 30 of them are good things and 21 are somewhat more threatening (but really, how bad is it if the evil places are buried in the sea? The earth has to be cleansed for Christ!), which is way more of the good signs than I realized. One of the bad things was that the hearts of men would fail them, and as President Benson explained, this is both a physical and a spiritual occurrence, as people would grow weary with the world and give up on life and sometimes even kill themselves. I couldn't believe it! People would actually kill themselves because they don't feel hope anymore? I know I've been sad and discouraged again and again, but there's always the hope that things'll improve, right? So it's impossible to be sad forever.

At least, that's what I think. But President Wilson (my awesome teacher) explained that people lose hope all the time and that there are twelve things he knows of that will change people from being discouraged and depressed to being hopeful and happy again. Now, up to this point, I've been writing all of this stuff from memory, which if you know me, is flippin' impressive because I don't remember anything. But President Wilson has always been able to teach in a way that allows me to retain the information (which I'm positive is one of the Lord's tender mercies toward me, since afternoon seminary basically saved my butt during those awful, awful, awful high school years), so I think I can remember most of the twelve things. (I also wrote them down, but I'm not gonna go get my notebook.) We were encouraged to pray, repent, read the scriptures (these are obvious), be healthy, exercise, serve, work, listen to good music, have good friends, and then a bunch of others that I don't remember right now. The one I want to draw attention to is listening to good music.

When I heard that, in my head I thought, well crap. Before you get all judgy judgerson on me, understand that I don't listen to crap. I listen to what I feel is quality music. But perhaps there is a random swear word, and sometimes (mostly) the rhythm or beat is harsh and overloud, and perhaps the singer tends to scream rather than croon. But it's quality music just the same. And although I have been spending these past days trying to be always found working or serving or having good friends and all that, I don't think I can give up my music. Some of those bands got me through the twice alluded-to hellacious years of high school.

So I know that I need to clean up my act in all facets of my life, but if music happens to be one of the last things I focus on changing, then can I help that? I mean after all, even Ben Franklin felt that his 13 virtues could only be mastered one at a time in a rotating 13-week stretch. Attaboy, Benny--I'll follow your advice.

It's A St. Patrick's Day Miracle!

So I just got back from Mesa, where my Uncle Chris got married (congratulations, Chris!). I'd never witnessed a civil wedding outside my own sister's, so it was kind of neat to see Chris and Kellie take communion and have a harmonizing duo sing songs of togetherness and love and all that right in the middle of the ceremony. The reception was beautiful and everything afterwards, but the real party was later on that night when the whole gang went back to my Aunt Jennifer's house. Cause they had a margarita machine.

Sometimes it's hilarious to be Irish, and my extended family did their heritage justice last night. Everything's funnier, louder, and more enjoyable when most people are just a little bit tipsy. Thanks, Bliven family! It was fun to see you all again!

And, Josh--they're very keen to meet you. Good luck. ;)

On the drive back home, I discovered that my iPod touch's applications, which for some mysterious reason have never worked, suddenly started working. Now I can play useless games and light up the screen like a flashlight (I promise that's a real app--it can also flash strobe lights of red, green, and blue). It's a Christmas miracle! Speaking of which, why do we isolate miracles that occur around Christmas as Christmas miracles? Are Christmas miracles more important than miracles that take place on an regular days?Maybe it was a Thanksgiving miracle, but it just took us a while to notice it. Or do miracles even occur on regular days? If it's a non-Christmas miracle, do we call it just a plain-old "miracle", or does it have a title, like "non-holiday-denominational miracle of average importance"?

I don't know what I'm saying. But, um...oh yeah, my iPod works. And...I love drunks?

Why am I writing this again?

For Kristina

I am so sorry I haven't posted on my blog. You'd think, what with all my lame-o free time, I could find a moment to update my own blog. Apparently not.

Anyhoo, I was reading an article in my mom's one and only magazine, Woman's World, and I came across this little jewel:

"My Guardian Angel: A Cuddly Little Ball of Heavenly Love"

I won't insult/nauseate you guys by typing the entire article out, but the gist of the content detailed a woman's search for consolation after losing her mother. She pined for her mother, which is understandable, and asked her mother to send her a guardian angel to comfort her. We'll call this sad woman Sheila. Sheila thought to adopt a puppy. And this is where the first of a slew of little "miracles" came into her life. As she puts it, "For months I'd been thinking about adopting a pet--probably a puppy, I figured. So when I suddenly got the urge to search local shelters for a kitten instead, no one was more surprised than me. Yet the feeling was so strong, I just couldn't resist it."

Pardon my cynicism, but *really*? She just couldn't help herself? She just *had* to get a kitten instead of a puppy? Why, that must be her mother, sending her a guardian angel! And no one else was more surprised than she, huh? Isn't she the only person in charge of the decision? And doesn't that mean she is the only one *not* surprised by the decision?

Sheila went on to describe how her son picked out the kitten at the shelter, and the shelter workers had given the kitten the name Angel. Coincidence? Of course not! That's miracle number 2!

Sheila elaborates: "Without mentioning the kitten's name, I showed the picture to my little nephew, Kyle.

"'What do you think I should call her?' I asked.

"'Angel,' he chirped.

"I had to laugh. 'Why?' I asked.

"'Because she looks like an angel,' Kyle replied. And in that moment, goosebumps danced across my skin--for while I'd always been more of a 'dog person,' my mom had adored cats." Of course, she had. And that was miracle number 3, for those of you who are keeping track.

Then Sheila describes how the first few days with Angel were heavenly, which is just lovely. Good for her. But Sheila was not satisfied. No, she still wondered if her mother had sent "this little Angel" to her. Cue M4 (miracle #4), and this one's a doozy:

"Thank you, Mom, for this Angel, I whispered. And in that instant, a white dove landed on a branch right before me!

"Stunned, I gasped. For until now, I'd never seen a white dove anywhere in real life--and somehow I knew it was a sign that Mom was at peace now, and that she truly had sent me this fluffy little Angel to remind me of her love, all the way from Heaven!"

Wow. I know it's cruel of me to belittle Sheila's means of comforting herself after her mother's passing, but I just hate misguided beliefs like white doves and cuddly kittens. Shortly after my brother died, my uncle thought he'd pay a psychic to read my mother and myself. Thinking I was too young, perhaps, to have a deceased sibling, the psychic completely missed the mark and told me I was thinking about college and traveling abroad. Well duh. That's what *every* fifteen-year-old thinks about. Then the psychic told my mother (after learning from my uncle that my mom's son had died) that every time my mom heard a knocking at the door or window and nobody was there that it was my brother trying to contact us. I don't think I've ever forgiven that psychic for being so blase about my own personal trauma, let alone my mother's.

And so, my good friends and fellow bloggers, this is why I scorn Sheila's heaven-sent kitten. There are no guardian angels, no invisible spirits knocking at the window, and no tangible white doves descending at the behest of departed souls. This world is what it is, and the next world is what IT is, and people who try to combine the two are just deluding themselves. Unless, of course, they're psychic. Then they're just trying to help you contact your family from beyond the grave. Or was it, trying to make some money? I must be too busy thinking about college and traveling abroad to remember properly.