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“St. Vincent” Is Quietly Revolutionary For Hollywood: A PeaceBang Review

[Warning: there will be mild spoilers in this essay, so don’t read it if you want to see the movie. – PB]

The movie “St. Vincent” is lifted out of cute cliché territory by the great Bill Murray in the title role as Vincent McKenna, a cranky Vietnam vet with a heart of gold. Supporting Murray are three terrific co-stars: Melissa McCarthy as a struggling single mom, young Jaeden Lieberher as the kid Vin babysits, and Naomi Watts as Daka, the pregnant, Russian “lady of the night” who keeps company and does business with Vinnie.

The movie is mildly remarkable for two reasons that so far have been uncommented on by the mainstream media, which is where I like to step in!

Melissa McCarthy is the first fat leading lady of a movie I can remember whose weight is never mentioned, and whose body size is not the impetus for any physical comedy, sight gags or plot conflict. This is a huge breakthrough for Hollywood, whose aversion to overweight performers is obvious to anyone who watches television or movies on a regular basis. Fat women, particularly, are almost non-existent in Hollywood’s universe except as comic sidekicks or expendable bit players. Melissa McCarthy’s character in “St. Vincent” never mentions her own size or weight, is never shown comically stuffing her face (a typical Hollywood trope), and is never bullied or harassed for her weight. She looks beautiful, she wears nice clothes, and she is treated as a human being worthy of dignity and respect. High five me, writer-director Theodore Melfi and casting person! Can we see more of this, please?

Also quietly notable is Naomi Watts’ depiction of a sex worker, a character names Daka who slyly evades the “hooker with a heart of gold” cliché by twice insisting on being paid her full fee by her strapped broke client (Bill Murray). In one of the first scenes in the movie, we hear her berate Vin in no uncertain terms, telling him in a heavy Russian accent that she’s not a charity.

As the movie progresses, Daka becomes drawn more intimately into Vin’s life, but contrary to what at least a dozen movie reviewers I have read have written, she is not Vin’s girlfriend. He is a client of hers, and a friend. There is a difference. Daka is pregnant and vulnerable, and Vin is broke, in poor health, and also vulnerable. The two characters join forces in the end in a way that will be familiar to many financially vulnerable, working-class American — working out a shared housing and food in exchange for household help and emotional support. Daka is not in love with Vin, nor he with her. They share not romantic feelings but mutual affection and compatible needs. I am not surprised that mainstream American movie reviewers missed the multiple references to Daka’s expectation that she will be paid for her sexual or domestic services rendered, but I am disappointed. Daka is an independent working woman; one of the rare Hollywood depictions of a sex worker that manages to be funny and fair, that doesn’t romanticize her life (“Pretty Woman,” I’m looking at you) or end with a chalk outline of her body surrounded by detectives.

I hope we will continue to see more such realistic depictions of the complicated relationships and alliances forged by human beings in community. Storytelling is so much more interesting when it breaks from outworn conventions.

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A Different Fat Narrative

A friend sent me this article by Lisa Respers France, a Senior Producer for CNN, a woman struggling with compulsive overeating and weight issues.

I should start by saying that in America, it is assumed that all fat women are struggling with their weight. There is no existing framework in America outside a small, much- reviled Fat Acceptance movement that allows for the possibility of a woman being fat and not trying to lose weight. The same is becoming true for men, although there is still a wide chasm between public expectations for male and female bodies.

Unlike the author, I do not mind being called fat — it’s an accurate description, and since I don’t ascribe any moral value to fat, it doesn’t trigger any self-hate or shame for me. Unlike the author, I do not prefer to be called “fluffy.”  I love the word “zaftig,” which conveys a zest and juiciness that the word “fat,” in its plainness, does not evoke but “fat” is fine (Remember when Garp and his wife Helen in The World According To Garp named their son “Walt” — just Walt, not Walter — and John Irving described the word as the sound a beaver makes when thumping its tail on the ground? That’s how I feel when I hear “fat.” A nice, solid thwack of sound. I’m fat).

My friend who forwarded me the article assumed, as most people do, that as a fat woman, I would resonate with France’s narrative. I do not. I read France’s article with a weary sense of deja vu, in fact, mentally ticking off each generic trope found in the vast majority of narratives about fat women published in mainstream media, as each one appeared. They are, in no particular order:

The subject’s frustration with passive-aggressive messages about one’s looks and body given by friends (!). Hurt about male objectification that isn’t flattering enough (but the objectification itself is not a problem).

Dramatic moment in childhood when food becomes important, and eventually addicting.

Food is comforting, until it’s not, but at that point the fat person finds it impossible to stop overeating. Misery ensues.

Obligatory sad and tawdry detail about lonely binge eating (in this case, eating “squeeze cheese” and a box of Ritz crackers in  bed following a break-up).

Realization that food is a replacement for a “hole inside” or “deep yearning” that is probably spiritual in nature.

Lightbulb moment while reading the latest, most popular self-help book for weight loss/compulsive overeating, subsequent tears and sense of breakthrough (see Geneen Roth, When Food Is Love or Women, Food And God for the most current lightbulb books on women and fat).

Insight that food is a substitute for self-love.

Mention of male figure who “loves me just as I am.” Usually a husband.

Vows to “get healthy,” with recognition that this “will be hard” but with the help of God/my husband/my personal trainer/friends, the subject will accomplish this “healing.”

What happens next, the vast majority of the time, is that the subject will commit to a new lifestyle, a healthier and portion-controlled food plan (you don’t say “diet” in these narratives), will achieve success, and will write a follow-up article showing photographs of their “new” body with accompanying quotes about how much better and happier they feel and how much their medical condition has improved.

What happens after that is that they will gain back all or most of the weight they lost (or all that they lost plus more), return to the same habits they had before their conversion experience, and start the cycle all over again, only this time finding a new, more honest narrative about how food and fat work for them. After having done more work to understand their own bodies, their own personal and very complicated reasons for eating (surprise, it wasn’t just self-loathing after all), they may re-embark on the quest for weight loss and freedom from compulsive eating and achieve something that looks like success for them. Unless they are Oprah, this subsequent, more unique set of insights about overeating will never be reported.

Continue reading “A Different Fat Narrative”

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Social Justice As An Embodied Soul

It has been a busy few days since I wrote about my own middle-aged single lady experience with rape culture. I have had a huge number of responses from clergy colleagues who have written to express their solidarity, share their own stories and ask, “Why aren’t we talking about this in our churches?” And you can see the many comments from other readers at the post itself.

I feel curiously lighter after having published my thoughts on the matter. Like many women,  I know and take to heart the feminist adage, “The personal is political!” I believe that to be true. And when I was in my 20’s, ALL my personal anger was political. Ask my old boyfriend. Boy, did he hear about it all the time! It was the era of my feminist awakening and every example of sexism in society felt deeply personal to me, while every sexist insult to me personally felt huge in its cultural resonance.

But after some years, I got over my constant rage and became a happy, busy professional woman working in ways (teaching and ministry) that fed my spirit and gave me a sense of meaning, hope and shalom in a broken world.

I think I actually forgot that my personal experiences as a woman were part of the social justice work I was doing. How in the world did that happen? Two reasons, I think: First,it is hard to integrate our own “personal” with the political when other oppressions seem so much more urgent. The second factor is  denial. I’m a strong, feisty chick. I don’t want to see myself as a victim even when men’s abusive behavior has crossed the line from creepy to criminal.  It’s easier to move on and re-direct my rage toward what’s happening to other bodies than to remember that my own body is part of the society I’m working to change.

I think we’re all much more comfortable when religious leaders live in their heads and preach, teach and write from that place. Me, too. I much prefer to ignore my incarnate reality in my ministry. I want to show up looking bright and shiny and ready to go, but I don’t really want to bring the Vicki who experiences all that gross misogynist stuff to the work. I keep her experiences for days off with friends, to laugh and weep and fume over while we talk a walk or have a glass of wine.

And that’s kind of weird. I have worked for years to evolve popular perception of clergy past the 19th century “pious young man of good prospects” model. You would think I would have done a better job integrating my own life experience with the social justice concerns of my denomination and my congregations. Go figure. I think good boundaries and privacy are important. But concern for appropriate boundaries should not lead to self-silencing about one’s own experience with the “isms” my own faith community is combating.

We’re all a work in progress.

Thank you all for sharing your stories and contributing to the conversation. Let’s keep having it in our communities.